The Chocolate Wars

Left to my own devices, I would be one of those people featured on TLC’s “My Six Hundred Pound Life”, I’d also have gestational diabetes and my tiny fetus would be a peep.

"Congratulations, it's a .....yellow chick?" (Photo Credit : www.dailymail.co.uk)

“Congratulations, it’s a …..yellow chick?” (Photo Credit : http://www.dailymail.co.uk)

This is how dangerous my sweet tooth is. It’s so deadly that it’s less a sweet tooth and more of a glucose-hungry, sweet fang.

To combat this need for all things made of high fructose corn syrup, I used to eschew all yummy items at the grocery store. If it tasted good, it couldn’t be found in my pantry because then I would eat it. All of it. I may be small but don’t doubt my ability to consume a 140 piece sampler palate of Russell Stover’s finest by myself in one sitting.

Who am I kidding? I wouldn't even need to sit down to finish this box. (Photo Credit : bostonmagazine,com)

Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t even need to sit down to finish this box. (Photo Credit : bostonmagazine,com)

This system worked well until I moved in with my husband.

Tex is blessed with the kind of metabolism that allows him to eat an entire pizza, a family size bag of Oreos and still have room for supper while still fitting into his Wrangler jeans. Thus my habit of not having junk at home quickly fell by the wayside. At the same time, Tex discovered that while I would happily hand over seven eighths of a pizza to him, if he turned his back for even one moment, all his cookies would have mysteriously disappeared.

So began the chocolate and cookie wars. The last battle ended with the key to the gun cabinet, where the cookies and all delicious goods have been stored for months, being locked in its own lock box after there was an Unwashed break-in to the gun cabinet during a frantic, late-night search for Mr. Christie’s best.

Not surprisingly, Tex was concerned about Halloween. Being an engineer, he likes to be prepared, so we had purchased the necessary candy a couple of days in advance.

Tex “I’m keeping the candy in the car, there isn’t enough room in the gun cabinet for all of it. Is it going to be safe here?”

Unwashed “Mmmphes?”

Tex “How did you manage to open one of the boxes and eat some already?”

The answer- I’m a chocolate ninja. I further proved this the next day when I got up early and decided to have Snickers for breakfast, so I grabbed my car keys and trundled outside. Tex figured out something was up because the door was unlocked when he woke up. This led to my car keys being confiscated until after Halloween.

The next morning I got up, again hankering for a sugary hit, but without car keys. Tex is both intelligent and devious; there were any number of places he could have put my car keys, however he is also an engineer which means there is exactly one place where he would have put his keys.

At ten to six on Saturday morning, I snuck silently into the bedroom and stole Tex’s keys out of his jean pockets. Then I quickly made my way out to the car and snaffled chocolate to my heart’s content. After sneaking his keys back into his jeans, I locked the door to cover my tracks, but was later busted when Tex spotted the wrappers in the trash.

Regardless, I believe I won this particular battle.

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Daily Weirdness Wednesdays: Me and My Candy Pants

  1. I have an obsession with twenty-five cent candy machines. It’s getting a little out of hand actually; when my pockets turn up only dimes, I’ve debated busking next to the cheerful metal and glass containers full of jelly bean goodness. Tragically, whenever this happens the only song I can think of is invariably the Advantix flea jingle.
  2. Because of the aforementioned sugar fixation, I often store loose candy and occasionally cookies in my pockets. Surreptitiously eating one Skittle at a time out of my jacket while studying in the library brings me immense joy. As does returning home from church, having pocketed a Peek Freans chocolate cookie and whipping it out of my sweater, then waving my baked bounty in the air for Meredith*, my roommate, to see. A nicer person might swipe two cookies; however I question how well my offer of “Sweater cookie?” would go over with other people.
  3. A character from a show I adore, “Cougar Town” also does this, but with crackers. In one episode she is attacked by birds who want her “sweater crackers”. I live in fear of this, but with sugar crazed five year olds instead of sea gulls. I have no doubt that at some point, I will pass a birthday party, remove an M&M from my hoodie and then have to run for my life while icing coated children chase me with looks of murder and diabetes in their eyes.

    I would run exactly like this only with twenty small people right behind me. (Photo Credit: dailymail.co.uk)

    I would run exactly like this only with twenty small people right behind me. (Photo Credit: dailymail.co.uk)

  4. At one point, I held a job that required me to keep candy in my pant pockets (bought in bulk, not from those lovely red metal and glass machines). Once I was visiting Sula** after work and had forgotten to remove the candy from my pants beforehand. Emptying my back pocket, I offered some to her “Swedish Fish?” She took it and then commented “Ooh it’s warm.” This memory of my beloved friend never ceases to make me laugh.
  5. Again, it isn’t Wednesday. Is it weird if you lose all track of the days of the week? Or is it only weird if you claim to have fallen into a space time warp and that an alien probed you? Whichever of those excuses is more acceptable- I’m going to go with that one.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of people who have yet to use a cross bow but in whose ability I’m slightly afraid of.

**Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who eat food out of my pants. Because I feel like that kind of things shouldn’t get around.

If It’s Big, Red and Painful; Go To Emerg

My seventeen year old cousin Candy* is visiting me for March Break. I’ve done quite a bit to try and amuse her; we’ve grocery shopped, gone to four different pharmacies in search of my favourite blister band-aids, sat on the couch and drank pot after pot of tea. A regular laugh riot.

However I decided to be kind and invite another person her age over for dinner last night. My second youngest cousin Sophie** has the misfortune of living in the same city as me. This means that on occasion she’s forced to come over to my house, listen to my boring, old person stories and eat my food.

So there we were, my husband Roscoe, Candy, Sophie and I, sitting around the dinner table attempting to enjoy a meal. I say attempting because invariably the talk turned to medicine and although I can still enjoy schnitzel while going through the intimate details of a gunshot wound, for Sophie and Candy this was not a daily event.

The conversation meandered around from rabies to Ebola and finally ended up on the half life of erectile dysfunction drugs. Roscoe and I both studied biochemistry at university hence we started by discussing the chemical properties of Cialis versus Viagara. An important difference between the two drugs is that the half life of Cialis is over four times that of Viagara. The half life of a drug is the amount of time it takes for half of it to degrade in your body. Erectile dysfunction drugs work to direct blood flow to the man’s fun pole.

Tadalafil tablet (20 mg)

Erectile Dysfunction Treatment- it’s all fun and games until you set a world record for stiffies. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now the thing about erections is you want blood there, because that’s what makes an erection, but the flip side is that blood shouldn’t stay there too long. Your tissues need oxygen, if you have blood pooling somewhere, eventually the oxygen runs out and the cells could start to die. This is why it says on both Cialis and Viagara, “If your erection persists more than four hours, seek medical attention”. The only thing worse than a flaccid joystick is a dead one.

So because Roscoe and I can never appreciate normal television shows like The Bachelor, or Two and a Half Men, choosing instead to watch such delights as HopkinsBoston Med or other televised surgery shows, we’ve actually watched the treatment for a never ending erection. Not the actual act itself, but mostly the reaction of the man with the member that was permanently at attention. If purple colour of the patient’s face was any indication it’s an excruciating procedure.

eggplant

Nothing good is ever happening if your face looks like this. (Photo credit: JulkaG)

Roscoe is working towards becoming a doctor, and so he was able to describe the treatment for said malady. “It’s very easy, you simply lance it.”

Sophie’s reaction was priceless, her eyebrows flew up in horror as she exclaimed “You lance the peen?!”

Chicken noodle soup with leeks nearly came out my nose. Poor Sophie kept sputtering “That hurts so much! I had to have the back of my leg lanced and it was unbearable. I feel like there should be a public service announcement about this.”

Having laughed myself out at this point and no longer in danger of having a relative of the onion family and chicken broth come out my nostrils I added “Well it’s better than having it come off.”

“You mean like if your hand slips?” Sophie asked looking at Roscoe, like this sort of thing must happen occasionally in medicine.

Roscoe of course was still able to happily eat his soup, swallowed then calmly replied “No, the penis is like any other part of your body, if a piece dies, the dead tissue has to come off otherwise the area around it will become infected and cause more issues.”

“Oh my god.” Sophie having given up on eating, sat back in her chair still wide eyed and stunned.

Completely unperturbed by the conversation in the way that only a future physician could be, Roscoe tried to smooth things over “You’d get a prosthetic. They’re not very good, but you’d have one.”

As surprising and admittedly funny as the idea of a false trouser snake was to me, nothing could top Sophie’s shocked exclamation “You lance the peen?”

It was like I’d been provided with a new way of judging catastrophe. As though I could stand outside a burning house, next to a shivering, abruptly homeless family and comfort them with “At least you didn’t have to lance the peen.”

Grapevine House Fire

Take heart- no peens were lanced.  (Photo credit: TexasEagle)

Or the next time I have to clean both the fridge and the toilet in one day “Well, I’m not lancing the peen.” Following being turned down for a job I’d buoy myself up by saying “No one’s peen was lanced.”

 

I spent the rest of the night giggling to myself. Cleaning the dishes was punctuated with my outbursts of “You lance the peen?”

Hilarious, mostly because I feel the majority of people would react in the same manner. Thus by writing this post, I’m performing a community service by getting this message out there. Hopefully that will excuse the fact that I wrote nearly a thousand words about problems you can have with your Johnson. So before the next time you or your loved one pops a little blue pill take a moment to ponder “Is it worth potentially lancing the peen?”†

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of young people who spent the rest of their March Break listening to me do impressions of Sophie’s exclamation.

**Fake names have been used to protect certain stylish young people who do not wish to be associated with their cousin who writes about willies.

† Just before posting this article I had Roscoe use his doctor knowledge to check the frequency of this side effect. He said there were less than ten reported cases ever but that a whole host of other medications can also cause permanent pant tenting. However then he started using his doctor voice rather than the nice husband voice that tells me my hair looks pretty, so I didn’t pay close attention. Regardless, as per Sophie’s suggestion I have now put this information out to the greater electronic world. Although I would say as a rule of thumb, if it’s big, red and painful, go to Emerg sooner rather than later.

 

 

Travesty Tuesday – Tricycle Rides and Unfortunate Sleeping Arrangements

The Great Unwashed- “I’m putting up a Travesty Tuesday post.”

Roscoe- “But it’s Friday.”

The Great Unwashed- “You know that saying “It’s five o’clock somewhere?” Well it’s Tuesday somewhere. It’s a time zone thing.”

Roscoe- “That’s not how time zones work.”

Red onion slices

These account for approximately 60% of the New Zealand diet.** (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Great Unwashed – “It’s Tuesday in New Zealand. Honest. And it doesn’t even matter if it isn’t, New Zealanders do things backwards anyways, they call every second Wednesday “Girdle” and only eat raw onions.”

Roscoe walked out of the room after that. He does that sometimes.

Here is an email I sent to my youngest cousin Candy*. She came to visit me just before leaving to go to college. It’s my guess that she robbed multiple convenience stores and the judge gave her the option of going to Juvie for a month or spending time with me. I think Juvie was looking pretty sweet after she read this.

Oh well you can’t win ‘em all, right Candy?

 

 

Dear Candy,

 

SURPRISE! We’re going camping. Nothing big, just the local park and only for one night. To celebrate this momentous occasion my truck is in at the mechanics getting both the flap thingie on the front fixed and also the SCREEEEEEEE noise that it’s been making any time I turn it on.

The parking lot in front of the garage was packed full of broken-down cars. The mechanics seemed doubtful about when they would be able to return my truck to me.

English: A man is repairing a tri-cycle who se...

Candy, I think you over packed a little. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As such it’s my recommendation to you Candy, to practice core muscle exercises for the next few days. Not only will these assist with paddle boarding which we shall be trying at the park but it will also help in your transport to the house from the bus station. My current plan is to ride a tricycle over and have you ride on my shoulders the three kilometers home. You will have to carry your suitcase on your back obviously.

This is a hugely popular transportation method in India just so you know.

We will be sharing the giant self inflating mattress while camping because I can’t be bothered to bring and blow up two separate ones when I could punch and kick my way through a night next to someone who is obligated to be nice to me by virtue of sharing just over 12% of my genetic code and staying in my house.

I also suggest you bring a sweater, a bathing suit, sunscreen and a UV shirt*** if you own one. Otherwise I’ll make you wear one of my UV shirts which are so used and stretched out that they’d look more appropriate on a fashionable orangutan.

Or maybe not, I feel like a fashionable anything would refuse to wear a UV shirt.

I have all necessary other camping items although I suggest you remind me to bring pillows. I often forget this item and no matter how I arrange the pile, firewood never seems comfortable to sleep on.

Lovingly, awkwardly and always on three wheels, your cousin,

The Great Unwashed

 

*Candy is as sweet as her made up name. She would never burn down convenience stores. She is frequently forced to visit me, a severe penance for crimes she doesn’t commit. At least I don’t think she commits crimes. I was covered in highly flammable oil during her visit though.

 

** I wouldn’t necessarily trust my knowledge of the world. I garnered most of the facts I know about New Zealand from Wild Buttercup. However I only looked at the pictures so I don’t know how reliable my information is.

 

Also I’ve never been to India. However I would like someone to ride on my shoulders while I peddle a tricycle. As a young child I was prevented from attempting this, I can only assume that sort of fun is illegal in Canada. India seems like a fun loving place. I bet mothers allow that sort of thing there.

 

***For those of you who don’t go red and shrivel up in the sun like a raisin a UV shirt blocks ninety to one hundred percent of UVA and UVB rays. For near albinos like Candy and I this type of clothing is a necessity for all outdoor activities. We combine it with 110 SPF sunscreen and then complain about feeling burnt. The Irish are fun to kiss but you probably shouldn’t procreate with them if you ever want to sit out on a beach.

To Avoid Decapitation By Prehistoric Lizards Keep Appropriate Urine Cups Next To The Bed At All Times

A seven hundred pound alligator trapped me in my bedroom last night. Through the door I could hear intermittent huffs and loud slithers whenever it moved lazily across my living room floor.

I suffer from night terrors. One in ten children have them. One in a hundred adults get them. Essentially it’s a bad dream that makes you scream yourself awake. Unfortunately you scream everyone else in the house awake too. My mother had night terrors a lot when I was growing up so I figured all adults had them and that my Dad was just absurdly well adjusted or a really quiet screamer.

Last night I dreamed that instead of people having dogs as house pets they had alligators. So after being bitten on the leg and on the torso, finally an alligator went for my head. Predictably I shrieked bloody murder until my shrill soprano voice was so loud that I woke myself up.

Normally when this happens Roscoe will roll over, rub my back and say “I promise there isn’t a herd of goats in the bedroom trampling you.” or “Coelacanths are extinct, and have no teeth. Go back to sleep.” Which is not true- coelacanths turn up everywhere in fact there’s probably one knocking on your door as I type this. However Roscoe is completing a surgery elective in Windsor this week and so I was all alone in the bed.

This is where the voice of reason comes in. Your voice of reason is a rather important one, it keeps you from making bad decisions. For example;

Voice of Crazy – “We should snort meth! Or inject it! Or eat it. Actually I have no idea how one goes about ingesting meth but we should still totally do it.”

Voice of Reason– “What are you talking about that is a TERRIBLE idea. No!”

See how quickly the nutty concepts were shut down? That’s what the Voice of Reason is for.

Tragically I have no Voice of Reason. It took a vacation with my common sense a couple of years back and has been AWOL ever since. I have only the Voice of Crazy and the Voice of Slightly Less Crazy.

So this is how last night went.

(Photo Credit : Candy*)

CAPTION Clearly this whole incident is my fault, who leaves their under garments strewn all over the couch for blood thirsty predators to find?(Photo Credit : Candy*)

Voice of Crazy – “We narrowly escaped being decapitated by an alligator. But I can hear it outside the door. It’s sitting in the living room next to the clothes horse.”

Voice of Slightly Less Crazy– “Is it?”

Voice of Crazy– “Yes and now we’re going to have to pee into a cup because there’s no way we can leave the bedroom without being eaten alive.”

Voice of Slightly Less Crazy – “I’m not sure if urinating into a container is a good idea, besides there are no cups in here.”

Voice of Crazy– “That means only one thing. We’ll have to use Roscoe’s hat.”

Thankfully I have a bladder of steel so I was able to wait three hours until it was light out because light makes alligators evaporate. Although I did spend a good hour frozen in terror convinced that if I set one foot on the floor there would be a smaller alligator under my bed that would bite my foot off.

To lift with your knees when carrying a 700 lb predator? (Photo Credit : theblaze.com and Dustin Bockman Facebook)

Or maybe I’m supposed to remember to lift with my legs when carrying a 700 lb predator? (Photo Credit : theblaze.com and Dustin Bockman Facebook)

Here is a picture of the gator that inspired this whole event. I clipped it’s photo from the Globe and Mail a couple of weeks back to remind myself that…

Actually I have no idea what I wanted to remind myself of. To dream big? That there’s always a giant prehistoric monster lurking in rivers? To carry a harpoon gun everywhere?

The moral of the story is don’t pee into your spouse’s headwear. Or maybe it’s to not clip pictures from newspapers and use them as bookmarks.

I have no idea.

*Though my brain was able to create this image my dear cousin Candy** was responsible for photoshopping the picture of the alligator into my living room. She did this at a moment’s notice because she lives up to the stereotype of having a stripper name and a heart of gold.

** Names of photo shopping geniuses have been changed in the interest of protecting my sweet sweet and free connection to tech-y people who want to put their work on this blog.

In The Event Of An Emergency Send Spun Sugar and Large Inflatable Reptiles

When I was a child I was ticked off, absolutely enraged by the fact that there is no new TV in the summer.

And then I stopped watching television so it became a moot point. Recently however, I discovered why there are only poorly made, low budget, reality shows to be found on television during the warm months- no one’s home.

Now my blog was doing pretty well. I have approximately a squillion and a half family members give or take five, who check my blog fairly frequently and a handful of followers who aren’t related to me that also like my work. Then July came, and everyone and their brother went away and the stats for the Great Unwashed tanked harder than Arrested Development’s Nielson ratings. So now the only people reading the Great Unwashed with any sort of regularity are my Mom and Roscoe’s Mom.

Actually Roscoe’s Mom reads it more often than my mother but that’s because Roscoe is a boy which means he doesn’t call his mother to say “Mom! I just watched the news and my inflatable crocodile is underneath the shelf next to the door in the basement if you need it.”

Just an FYI there was a MASSIVE flood in Toronto. My parents live near said giant throbbing metropolis. (That sounds vaguely dirty but is really meant to express my feelings about the city. I think I just made things worse.) Anyway so in the event of a flood I wanted them to know where the pool toys were.

Because that’s what you need in a flood. Pool toys. On a different note, the Red Cross wouldn’t hire me.

Red Cross- A country has just endured a horrible life changing crisis. What do you send?

The Great Unwashed- Cotton candy! I like to eat it when I’m sad about things like my parent’s cats being sick.

English: Pink Cotton candy. Deutsch: Rosa Zuck...

These people are prepared for anything from a child’s birthday party to a earthquake.(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Getting back to the original point of this post – The Great Unwashed is now going into reruns. Not really, but I am re-posting the part one of two Liebster award posts because part two will go up on Saturday. Or Sunday. There’s an issue with me changing time zones on one of those two days and although I’m good at many things, figuring out times in other countries is not one of them. Roscoe even made me up a table so I can figure out what time it is in Ontario while I’m away. Supposedly this will prevent me from calling him at odd hours.

Even still I have no doubt that I’m going to shock him awake at 3 AM while I’m away. He’ll bolt right up in bed hearing his phone ring thinking that he has to dash back to the hospital to prevent someone from bleeding out and it will just be me, calling to tell him about a lizard I saw.

I’m an excellent wife.

On with the reruns. Also I promise, promise part two will actually go up Saturday.

Or Sunday.

Blasted time zones.

Neil Patrick Harris Declined My Offer To Host This Award Post

Posted on June 12, 2013

However the show must go on, and this is an awards show. For me. Just me. Here at The Great Unwashed we are super self involved but we are also about family. Big family. That last sentence may have been foreshadowing. Or it would be if Roscoe would let me have my way. On with the show.

Dear Faithful readers,

The day has finally arrived. I was nominated for an award. Not a big award. More like WordPress’ version of a participation award but gosh darn it, it’s an award. And I’m chuffed.  Now there are multiple steps to follow for this award, so many that I’ve decided to break it into two blog posts.

First you need to acknowledge and thank the person who nominated you. So thank you Erica Funi of  Finding The Funi, I do so appreciate being nominated, I was so thrilled that I called my Mom, who already knew because she went on my site and saw, but didn’t call me because that’s the kind of mother she is. Actually she may have texted me in her excitement, I’ll have to check my phone to see if there is a cryptic “k” from the day that you nominated me. This is my mother’s electronic way of communicating with the world- one indecipherable letter at a time. Sometimes she’ll put a “u” or an “i” in there just to mix it up.

Getting back to the award. Erica is a wonderful writer. She also has a nice smile. And I have it on good authority that she does not smell. Erica, I don’t think I could have written a more winning recommendation if I tried. Thanks again for nominating me, I did my best to answer your questions which was of course the second step in the process.

What is your biggest pet peeve?

People asking about my pet peeves.  No that’s not true, like most people, I love to be questioned about the things that are bothering me. Most recently my biggest pet peeve is Roscoe’s refusal to take a second wife. I’ve gotten into the show “Big Love” of late and the concept of polygamy is really growing on me. I just love the idea of someone else cleaning and grocery shopping and vacuuming. Roscoe claims that I don’t fully understand the idea of multiple spouses.

Car-mel or Car-a-mel?

 

Are they both edible? Yes? Then why are we having this conversation and not eating sweets?

If you could trade places with anyone for a day, who would it be?

I can tell you who it wouldn’t be – my imaginary sister wife. I left her alllll of the laundry. The pile is taller than me, which isn’t saying much, but it’s also taller than Roscoe. I’m going to consider that an accomplishment. We’re out of laundry detergent but I’m sure my imaginary sister wife can take care of that.

What is the last website you visited?

Hold The Condiments. Occasionally I feel it necessary to send windy, rambling messages to other bloggers. Before that I wrote a fan letter to the Byronic Man.

Wait did I answer the question? No matter, moving on.

Toilet paper. Over or under?

Once again, I think you’ve missed the forest for the trees, or in this case the forest for the products of the pulp and paper industry. As long as you have TP, you’re good. Unless of course you have a house full of riotous teenagers and it’s Halloween, in which case you’re probably going to be out of toilet paper shortly. Also you’ll owe your neighbours a cake. I’d hide the eggs before you start baking too.

What was the first concert you went to?

I feel like you don’t want me to answer Raffi.   I’ll go with someone much cooler instead- Hanson.

What is your favorite quote?

MMBop.

Is that not a quote?

MMMBopThey’re definitely cooler.  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

How do you take your coffee?

In litres, preferably in the morning.

Or in gallons for all my Southern reader friends.

What are you having (or did you have) for dinner tonight?

A sandwich, I was supposed to be making wheatberry salad, but then I started watching “Big Love”, and answering a never ending series of questions.

What is your favorite thing about yourself?

I feel like this is more than eleven questions, or possibly I’m answering more than eleven questions, or maybe it just feels longer because I keep asking questions.

Let’s say my ability to count.

What is your guilty pleasure?

Polygamy, but I haven’t actually done that, I just imagine other women cleaning my house and then making me litres of coffee. So let’s go with eating all of Roscoe’s special yogurt out of the fridge.

Stay tuned for part two of the Liebster award posts. There’s going to be a bar fight.

Writer’s Block

So I went to my normal spot in the library, third floor tables, under the sky light, right in between the homeless man who talks to himself and the homeless man whose odor speaks for him.

But no magic happened. I walked home, on my normal route by the river, under the trees. I still didn’t feel better so I did what every author who has writer’s block does on occasion, I rolled around on the floor clutching my netbook to my chest crying “Oprah will never love meeeeeeeee!”

And then I covered my face in make up because my face can look good, even if my words can’t. But I still didn’t feel better.

So I put on all the pieces of clothing that make me happy; my giant Kermit the Frog stocking socks, my skirt which looks like someone took multiple swipes at it with pink, purple and black paint, my navy blue t shirt with the desert on it which is actually hand painted. Then I topped the whole bizarre overly made up, yet clashing look off with my circus coat. I added a bright blue scarf with a crazy print for good measure.

Then I walked down our street looking like a cross between a carnival and a cartoon. The frat boys ignored me. The metallers next door turned their pierced heads and looked the other way. Even the druggies sitting out on their porch, who normally give a whistle when I pass, paid me no mind.

The wind had gone out of my sails. Not even the colourful racket the circus coat was making against the green grass could cheer me up. So I asked Roscoe to take a photo of me. This is what my writer’s angst looks like.

Not pictured- the face of marital angst. Roscoe- "I don't mind when you dress up like a colour blind clown but I don't want to be seen with you much less take photos of it." I wish Candy* had been here, she would have suggested I put on my big floppy hat to feel a little better and to add to the photo.

Not pictured- the face of marital angst. Roscoe- “I don’t mind when you dress up like a colour blind clown but I don’t want to be seen with you, much less take photos of it.” I wish Candy* had been here, she would have suggested I put on my big floppy hat to feel a little better and to add to the photo.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who don’t mind when I dress like a three year old who has been allowed to pick out their own clothes to cheer myself up.

Travesty Tuesdays- I Don’t Know If There’s a Title To Encompass The Contents Below

Over the March Break my youngest cousin came to visit me. I had grand plans for what we would do. But between my young cousin’s penchant for sleeping til mid afternoon and my tendency to go to bed early, we were unable to fit everything in. We did however manage to take over a hundred pictures for me to use on my blog, Facebook and Twitter accounts. This creative photo op came at the cost of another planned activity, something that I only remembered after my visitor had returned home. The following is a letter I wrote to rectify the situation. And the letter after that is the letter I wrote to rectify the situation that I tried to rectify.

 

Dear Young Person,

Last week I awkwardly photobombed your Skype session with your friend Candy* in order to obtain your address. It was my intent that Candy would practice the lost art of letter writing and send some post to you. However because of poor time management on my part this never occurred. I realized the other day that not only did I fail to instill the importance of handwritten correspondence in my youngest cousin but I also robbed an innocent young person of the pleasure of receiving a letter in the mail. An exciting experience if there ever was one. So I am writing to you now. Though it occurs to me that I have no more to say so I’ve included a poorly drawn cartoon of what Candy and I did instead of writing to you.

Because the only thing better than receiving a letter from a complete stranger is receiving a letter and a drawing, complete with unintelligible labels. Also best of luck everyone in deciphering my writing. As my Gran says “We love getting your letters! Especially after we figure out what they say.

Because the only thing better than receiving a letter from a complete stranger is receiving a letter and a drawing with unintelligible labels. Also best of luck everyone in deciphering my writing. As my Gran says “We love getting your letters! Especially after we figure out what they say.”

 

Dear Candy,

Roscoe intercepted my letter to your friend. He said that it was wildly inappropriate for me to write to someone I’ve never met and have only seen when I awkwardly leaped into the background of your Skype conversation. He suggested I should write to you instead and that you could show the young person in question the letter if you so chose.

Roscoe’s been raining on my parades of late. Just last week he broke up a starfish racing ring I’d been trying to set up.

“But it’s brilliant” I cried “Starfish don’t have any knees for mob thugs to break!” Roscoe gruffly replied “It’s the people’s knees who bet on the racing that mobsters break.”

Perhaps he did me a favour, I’m now seeing that I should start a people racing ring for starfish to bet on because then no one’s knees would be hurt by the mobsters and it might combat the obesity epidemic this country has going.

Much love, thanks for visiting me,

The Great Unwashed

 

 

*Names have been changed but only in the post because otherwise it would just be really strange to send a letter to a person who you don’t know about a person that they know but whose name has been changed. The concept alone makes the above sentence confusing, and the poor grammar just adds to the problem.

Public Service Announcement -Protect Your Pecker, Pause Before Pill Popping

My seventeen year old cousin Candy* is visiting us for March Break. I’ve done quite a bit to try and amuse her; we’ve grocery shopped, gone to four different pharmacies in search of my favourite blister band-aids, sat on the couch and drank four pots of tea. A regular laugh riot.

However I decided to be kind and invite another person her age over for dinner last night. My second youngest cousin Sophie** has the misfortune of living in the same city as me. This means that on occasion she’s forced to come over to my house, listen to my boring, old person stories and eat my food.

So there we were, my husband Roscoe, Candy, Sophie and I, sitting around the dinner table attempting to enjoy a meal. I say attempting because invariably the talk turned to medicine and although I can still enjoy schnitzel while going through the intimate details of a gunshot wound, for Sophie and Candy this was not a daily event.

The conversation meandered around from rabies to Ebola and finally ended up on the half life of erectile dysfunction drugs. Roscoe and I both studied biochemistry at university hence we started by discussing the chemical properties of Cialis versus Viagara. An important difference between the two drugs is that the half life of Cialis is over four times that of Viagara. The half life of a drug is the amount of time it takes for half of it to degrade in your body. Erectile dysfunction drugs work to direct blood flow to the man’s fun pole.

Tadalafil tablet (20 mg)

Erectile Dysfunction Treatment- it’s all fun and games until you set a world record for stiffies. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now the thing about erections is you want blood there, because that’s what makes an erection, but the flip side is that blood shouldn’t stay there too long. Your tissues need oxygen, if you have blood pooling somewhere, eventually the oxygen runs out and the cells could start to die. This is why it says on both Cialis and Viagara, “If your erection persists more than four hours, seek medical attention”. The only thing worse than a flaccid joystick is a dead one.

So because Roscoe and I can never appreciate normal television shows like The Bachelor, or Two and a Half Men, choosing instead to watch such delights as Hopkins, Boston Med or other televised surgery shows, we’ve actually watched the treatment for a never ending erection. Not the actual act itself, but mostly the reaction of the man with the member that was permanently at attention. If purple colour of the patient’s face was any indication it’s an excruciating procedure.

eggplant

Deep purple, flattering on an eggplant, not so much on a person’s face.  (Photo credit: JulkaG)

Roscoe when he’s not being an ottoman, is working towards becoming a doctor, and so he was able to describe the treatment for said malady. “It’s very easy, you simply lance it.”

Sophie’s reaction was priceless, her eyebrows flew up in horror as she exclaimed “You lance the peen?!”

Chicken noodle soup with leeks nearly came out my nose. Poor Sophie kept sputtering “That hurts so much! I had to have the back of my leg lanced and it was unbearable. I feel like there should be a public service announcement about this.”

Having laughed myself out at this point and no longer in danger of having a relative of the onion family and chicken broth come out my nostrils I added “Well it’s better than having it come off.”

“You mean like if your hand slips?” Sophie asked looking at Roscoe, like this sort of thing must happen occasionally in medicine.

Roscoe of course was still able to happily eat his soup, swallowed then calmly replied “No, the penis is like any other part of your body, if a piece dies, the dead tissue has to come off otherwise the area around it will become infected and cause more issues.”

“Oh my god.” Sophie having given up on eating, sat back in her chair still wide eyed and stunned.

Completely unperturbed by the conversation in the way that only a future physician could be, Roscoe tried to smooth things over “You’d get a prosthetic. They’re not very good, but you’d have one.”

As surprising and admittedly kind of funny as the idea of a false trouser snake was to me, nothing could top Sophie’s shocked exclamation “You lance the peen?”

It was like I’d been provided with a new way of judging catastrophe. As though I could stand outside a burning house, next to a shivering, abruptly homeless family and comfort them with “At least you didn’t have to lance the peen.”

Grapevine House Fire

Take heart- no peens were lanced. Grapevine House Fire (Photo credit: TexasEagle)

Or the next time I have to clean both the fridge and the toilet in one day “Well, I’m not lancing the peen.” Following being turned down for a job I’d buoy myself up by saying “No one’s peen was lanced.”

 

 

I spent the rest of the night giggling to myself. Cleaning the dishes was punctuated with my outbursts of “You lance the peen?”

Hilarious, mostly because I feel the majority of people would react in the same manner. Thus by writing this post, I’m performing a community service by getting this message out there. Hopefully that will excuse the fact that I wrote nearly a thousand words about problems you can have with your Johnson. So before the next time you or your loved one pops a little blue pill take a moment to ponder “Is it worth potentially lancing the peen?”†

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of young people who spent the rest of their March Break listening to me do impressions of Sophie’s exclamation.

**Fake names have been used to protect certain stylish young people who do not wish to be associated with their cousin who writes about willies.

† Just before posting this article I had Roscoe use his doctor knowledge to check the frequency of this side effect. He said there were less than ten reported cases ever but that a whole host of other medications can also cause permanent pant tenting. However then he started using his doctor voice rather than the nice husband voice that tells me my hair looks pretty, so I didn’t pay close attention. Regardless, as per Sophie’s suggestion I have now put this information out to the greater electronic world. Although I would say as a rule of thumb, if it’s big, red and painful, go to Emerg sooner rather than later.

 

Travesty Tuesdays- An Apology and a Plea

In honour of Candy*’s visit, this Travesty Tuesday post is a postcard that I wrote to Candy’s mother. Last June Candy came to visit for a couple of days. In this correspondence I was petitioning that she be allowed to visit again this past Christmas. Ultimately my December campaign was unsuccessful, something about New York being more exciting than making cider with your cousin.

Dear Aunty Camelia**,                                                                                                        Dec’12

I’m very sorry I told Candy where babies come from. Please let her visit me over Christmas, I promise not to do it again.

In my defense, she thought you had to pluck the arm hairs off of adorable children you liked and then plant the hairs in the ground for a fetus to develop like an oddly shaped potato. I thought my explanation might get her into less trouble than this.

– The Great Unwashed

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of those who don’t actually believe that children grow in the ground like carrots.

** Names of adults who may not appreciate their children being exploited for the purposes of my blog have been changed in the hopes that maybe they won’t recognize themselves and force me to eat puffed rice in lieu of popcorn for the rest of my life. That bowl of round, puffy rice remains the weirdest movie snack that I’ve ever consumed. Although seeing as Aunty Camelia sampled my beet cookies, we may be even in the “Forcing Strange Foods Upon Distant Relatives Game”.