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.


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.



My Bedtime Ritual

I go to bed at the same time as most third graders, this is not so much an active choice as it is a response to my body shutting down. Prior to the magical hour of nine pm I am a normal, (relatively) functioning adult; I do chores, have conversations with Roscoe about things which need to be done around the house and what not. However after nine pm all bets are off and I am transformed by exhaustion. I decided to record what happens on a typical evening.

8:58 PM

Roscoe and I are in the office. Roscoe is doing work. I am reviewing my day with him.

The Great Unwashed – “So the mechanics have an opening at 9 AM Saturday which would work around the family function at one and leave me enough time to cook dinner for our friends at five.”

Roscoe – “That sounds good, you look tired. Why don’t you go to bed?”

The Great Unwashed exits the room to go sit on the sofa.

The Great Unwashed – “I’m not tired.”

9:00 PM

It’s at this point when the magical hour begins and I transform from a perfectly functional adult into a nonsense spewing, sloth.

9:01 PM

The Great Unwashed calls to Roscoe in the next room.

The Great Unwashed – “Why don’t we own a llama?”

9:03 PM

The Great Unwashed – “We should eat more capers.”

9:04 PM

The Great Unwashed – “I want to learn skeleton.”

9:05 PM

The Great Unwashed – “Wait is skeleton the one where you’re face down or is that luge?”

Roscoe sensing that there is a question that actually requires an answer pipes up “Skeleton is facedown”

The Great Unwashed – “Oh. Then I want to learn to luge.”

German natural track luger Michaela Maurer at ...

At 9:04 PM at night I want to hurtle myself face up down a chute of ice. Don’t ask what I imagine doing at ten PM.(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s around this point generally that Roscoe hauls himself out of the pilot chair in the office and comes to tell me to go to bed.

9:06 PM

Roscoe “Go to bed”

The Great Unwashed sprawled across the couch lacking any sort of muscle tone, squints and says defiantly -“No”

Weary but not beaten Roscoe returns to the office.

9:11 PM

The sound of the Great Unwashed voice is tinged with exhaustion now.

The Great Unwashed – “Where’s your lumbago?”

Roscoe is now approaching fed up and once again leaves the office to face The Great Unwashed who actually appears to be liquefying before his eyes from lack of muscle tone.

Roscoe – “Go. To. Bed.”

The Great Unwashed – “No, I’m not tired and I don’t want to have to brush my teeth.”

9:12 PM

The Great Unwashed – “Would you still go out in public with me if I wore stick on mutton chops?”

9:13 PM

The Great Unwashed – “The bathroom is too far away. Carry me!”

Roscoe will be unmoved by this plea. Mostly because previously when he has acquiesced to my demands to be carried I have gone limp and turned into what he calls “a 300 lb blob”. This of course causes me to take offense that he thinks I’m 300 lbs and annoys Roscoe because I’m still no closer to brushing my teeth.

9:15 PM

It’s at this point generally that I start to sing fragments of songs over and over. I may have migrated to the floor in a half hearted attempt to go to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

9:17 PM

Roscoe once more extracts himself from the pilot chair and stalks to the living room to face me.

Roscoe – “GO TO BED”

The Great Unwashed in a thoroughly defeated and utterly exhausted tone “No.”

Roscoe stomps back to the office.

9:23 PM

The disembodied and miserable voice of the Great Unwashed floats into the office.

The Great Unwashed – “I’m so tired I don’t want to exist!”

And with that I promptly brush my teeth and go to bed. And then I wake up at five am, perky and raring to go in a way that would cause people around me to become homicidal, luckily most of the world isn’t up at that time. Thus far no bodily harm has come to me for awaking at this early hour.

It Would Have Been Worse If It Was a Leech

The other day Roscoe arrived home from working at the hospital to a problem.

The Great Unwashed– “I think I swallowed a maggot, can you look at my throat?”

Roscoe his voice heavy with disbelief “You swallowed a maggot.”

The Great Unwashed undeterred by Roscoe’s lack of concern for her wellbeing-  “Yes.”

Roscoe – “Why were you eating maggots?”

The Great Unwashed– “I wasn’t but one time a friend of mine ate a maggot that got caught in his throat and then crawled up into his sinuses and he described the sensation to me. My throat feels exactly like that, so I need you to check it out for me.”

Roscoe realizing this problem is not going to go away until he acknowledges it-  “Fine. Come here. Open your mouth.”

Roscoe is giving The Great Unwashed’s mouth only a cursory glance “Wait, don’t you need your expensive ear and mouth thingy that looks the emergency car window breaker? Or at the very least the pepper shaker with the light on the end of it?”

Roscoe uses something that looks like this to inspect people's ears and eyes. He claims his opthawhateverascope looks nothing like this though. (Photo Credit : canadiantire.ca)

Roscoe uses something that looks like this to inspect people’s ears and eyes. He claims his opthawhateverascope looks nothing like this though. (Photo Credit : canadiantire.ca)

Roscoe – “Do you want me to season your throat or examine it?”

The Great Unwashed -“Examine please.”

Roscoe inspects the back of my throat for creepy crawly things.- “No maggots. You’re fine.”

The Great Unwashed – “I don’t think you followed the proper insect ingestion protocol.”

Roscoe – “Who went to medical school here?”

The Great Unwashed – “All I’m saying is that if I were checking if someone had eaten a maggot, I would have used a flashlight, or maybe some maggot food to entice the maggot to come out.”

“Arrrrrrrrrgggg!!!” Roscoe throws up his hands and stalks out of the room.

The Great Unwashed calls after him “What do maggots eat?”


The Only Stores I Make Lists For Are The Ones That Sell Liquor

Not really however the series of texts that I sent to Roscoe would make you think otherwise.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:52 PM

We are out of wine. Please bring some home with you, it will make me a nicer person.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:53 PM

And by nicer person what I mean is drunk. Which is as close to nice as I get.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:54 PM

In fact I was once called “agreeable” when I was tipsy.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:54 PM

Which is the opposite of what I am now, you’re at risk of losing an arm to biting if you come home without wine.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:56 PM

Which even if you happen to have chainmail stashed in the car to protect your appendages, is still not a good thing- human bites are super infectious.

From The Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:57 PM

Also I love you.

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:57 PM

But I would love you more with wine.*

From the Great Unwashed to Roscoe 5:58 PM

I’d also bite you less. That sounds dirty but it’s meant to be intimidating.

*Now this would make a good greeting card. Appropriate for all occasions. I would love most things more with wine. I’m not alone in this either. Paul Johnson from The Good Greatsby freely admits to enjoying his children’s company more with alcohol.

Also no Roscoes were harmed in the making of this post. The man had the good sense to bring home two bottles of hootch.

Saving The World; One Hardened Lump of Goo at a Time

Roscoe standing in the bathroom looking perplexed -“Unwashed*?”

The Great Unwashed appears in the bathroom doorway- “Yes?”

 Soap is prone to exploding when exposed to science because science is great. (Photo Credit : klce.com)

What do you mean you don’t want to wash yourself with this? (Photo Credit : klce.com)

Roscoe holds up a giant white mound of hardened scented goo- “What’s up with our soap?”

The Great Unwashed – “I believe what you meant to ask was; What’s up AND out with our soap? As it has clearly grown both up AND out.” The Great Unwashed gestures to emphasize the soap’s growth.

Roscoe still not any closer to having clean hands- “What did you do to our soap?”

The Great Unwashed- “I blew it up. For the good of mankind.”

Roscoe takes a closer look at what was a bar of soap and watches as small pieces flake off into the sink- “How does this help mankind?”

I improved the soap, by making more of it. (Photo Credit : lessonsfromateacher.com)

I improved the soap, by making more of it. (Photo Credit : lessonsfromateacher.com)

The Great Unwashed- “It’s science, and science is good. As a doctor science employs you every day and helps people. Ergo I also helped people by microwaving our soap because it was a part of a scientific experiment.”

Roscoe looks as though he is about to ask a follow up question but refrains until The Great Unwashed is walking away, undoubtedly to create more calamity away from his watchful eyes. “Does this mean the microwave is clean?” he hopefully asks The Great Unwashed’s back.

Fun Science Fact For The Day: If you microwave a bar of Ivory soap it expands and you can mold it or just keep microwaving bars continuously until you have a series of small soap explosions. I don’t recommend the last option though. It seems fun at the time, but then your spouse realizes that all the soap in the house looks funnier than the stuff they sell at Lush and disintegrates when it’s touched. This might result in microwave privileges being revoked.

Unless of course you are the kind of pious, responsible person who never microwaves uncovered tomato soup.

I’m not- I heat up uncovered chili in the microwave too and I never ever, ever clean it out. I am an excellent wife. Roscoe would probably hug me right now if his hands were clean. Nonetheless microwaving bath products is a fun and educational science experiment. And science helps everyone. Especially Roscoe, even if he doesn’t always recognize it.

*On occasion Roscoe omits both the article and the “Great” from my name. Generally when I have done something not so great, like dying my hands blue or purple, or putting dirt in our freezer and making him eat chicken fingers for eight days straight.

The Art Of Being A Good Wife

A photo of a pizza with peppers

This is what Roscoe’s pizza looked like coming out of the oven. Not really, we buy the inexpensive frozen kind. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Roscoe arrived home yesterday after a long day of stitching peoples’ bits back on. My husband spends some eighty hours a week doing this. I’m beginning to think that people are careless with where they put their bits. Also I’m debating petitioning the city to outlaw augers, axes, and possibly lawnmowers.

Anyways being the excellent wife I am, I had made him dinner.

The Great Unwashed : I made you pizza, it’s in the kitchen.

Roscoe looking very tired from putting people’s bit back on : Thank you.

Roscoe goes into the kitchen, pauses then marches back out holding a red, ragged circle of dough.

Roscoe : What is this?

The Great Unwashed : It’s pizza. It was pepperoni pizza but then I denuded it of the pepperonis because I ate one and I just couldn’t stop. Then I took a couple of bites out of the crust because you know how much I love the crust. In my defense there wasn’t a whole lot of cheese on it to begin with because it’s the cheap no name frozen brand. But I left the rest for you.

Roscoe looks down at the dough which is mostly circular but for a few bites around the edge.

Roscoe : So you made me a circle of bread smeared with tomato sauce.

The Great Unwashed : Yes. Because I love you.

Roscoe looks annoyed.

The Great Unwashed : Haven’t you heard the saying “It’s the thought that counts”?

Man Jobs; Like Hacking Up Bears With Axes And Moving Heavy Things

So a couple weeks ago Roscoe was sitting on the couch and I stood directly in front of him. This is generally a sign that I’m going to ask him to do a man job. Man jobs in our house are classified as tasks that require power tools or lifting. It’s not that I can’t use power tools or lift things, the trouble is I don’t want to, so essentially that means that I won’t.

According to the PC Authority site this is both a power tool and an ax. Which makes it a man job squared equaling one shopping trip for unnecessary things that make me feel pretty in a marriage.( Photo Credit: http://www.pcauthority.com.au/News/280159)

According to the PC Authority site this is both a power tool and an ax. Which makes it a man job squared equaling one shopping trip for unnecessary things that make me feel pretty in a marriage.( Photo Credit: http://www.pcauthority.com.au/News/280159)

So there I am standing in front of Roscoe with a look on my face that those closest to me know is generally followed by a lot of grief on their part. Roscoe looks up and is not happy. This may be partially because he doesn’t want to use power tools or lift things (I know I never want to) but I suspect it’s because he’s still annoyed at me for dying his feet purple this past weekend.

In my defense, it was only part of his feet, the soles specifically and I also dyed my arms a bright violet up to the elbows, along with the majority of our bathroom. I had neglected to clean the tub before Roscoe needed to shower and hence, purple feet.

The Great Unwashed with a most innocent and endearing look on her face –“I dropped a book behind the bookshelf.”

Roscoe not being taken in by the seemingly angelic face The Great Unwashed is making –“What kind of book?”

The Great Unwashed –“A book I don’t want to read.”

Roscoe now returns his focus to his computer. The Great Unwashed continues to stand in front of him with a look of unconvincing sweetness on her face. Roscoe, realizing that this issue may not be over sighs and closes his laptop.

The Great Unwashed– “It may have been a library book.” Pauses. “ That’s overdue.” Pauses again as Roscoe starts to frown. “ By a lot.”

Roscoe sighing heavily and with a note of resignation – “Which bookshelf?”

The Great Unwashed– “The smaller one.”

Now I knew that the book wasn’t behind the smaller one, but I was hoping that if Roscoe moved the smaller one he might be able to reach the book I dropped behind the larger one without having to move it.

Roscoe grunts and complains about my choice of storage places for my library books but in a couple of minutes he moves the smaller bookshelf, reaches behind and hands me a hardcover.

The Great Unwashed – “Thank you, but that’s not my book, although this is another library book.” Roscoe is looking unimpressed at this point.

Roscoe– “That’s the only one behind there.”

The Great Unwashed in the most innocent manner possible– “It *might* have fallen behind the big bookshelf.”

More grunting. Annoyance in now radiating off of Roscoe from the top of his head down to his purple soled feet.

Finally, Roscoe with more than a hint of annoyance in his voice- “There are no books behind here.”

The Great Unwashed – “Oh. Oops!”

The book that I supposedly dropped turned up the next day. It was stuck in between the bedside table and the box spring. However three weeks ago I remember dropping two things behind the larger bookshelf. I blame the invisible house gnomes for moving one of my library books without asking permission. As for Roscoe the purple eventually washed off however he was forced to wear black socks and shoes for about two weeks to cover up the colour. I told him it was the price of being married to a beautiful, resourceful woman. (I was dying a shirt to give it a new lease on life.) He told me that I was a pain in the butt.

Marriage Is For Better Or For Worse; Do Giant Dirt Ice Cubes Go Under Worse?

On the eve of my wedding anniversary, I thought I’d share a conversational excerpt from the past week.

Roscoe arrives home to yet another roast chicken dinner.

Roscoe gestures towards the plate “Again?”

The Great Unwashed “Chicken breasts were half price this week so I bought eight pounds.”

Roscoe surveys the white meat dejectedly “Can you put some in the freezer?”

The Great Unwashed “No, because then there wouldn’t be room for the dirt.”

Roscoe verging on alarmed now and inspecting the apartment for signs of gardening paraphernalia “What dirt?”

The Great Unwashed unperturbed and completely missing the strain in her husband’s voice “The dirt I put in the freezer.”

Roscoe with a note of disbelief “You froze dirt in our freezer?”

The Great Unwashed excitedly “I fit an entire container of it in there!”

Roscoe waits for justification then realizes that it isn’t coming “Um why?”

The Great Unwashed “So that there will be a layer on top of the sand.”

Rosoce “There’s sand in our freezer too?”

The Great Unwashed “Well yeah, what else are the dinosaurs going to rest on?”

DIRT Themed photo

Can be stored next to fudgsicles and adds a distinct earthy flavour to burgers. (Photo credit: Pink Pink)

Roscoe stands still for a moment, not sure what to do now that his wife has converted the place that once housed bananas and expired meat into something that could pass for a playground, “What is wrong with you?”

The Great Unwashed with just a hint of amusement in her voice “Don’t get upset I’ll clean it after, and you knew I was an artist when you married me.”

Roscoe inhales deeply in an attempt to calm himself and starts to eat his fourth chicken dinner of the week. He decides to let the dirt ice cube issue go and move onto other topics. “I couldn’t find the iron this morning do you know where it is?”

The Great Unwashed “Oh, I left it at work, but you wouldn’t want to use it anyway, it’s covered in crayon.”

Roscoe makes the internationally recognized “What the hell?” face. Then remembers that this is what he signed up for three years ago and continues eating his chicken.

Happy Anniversary Roscoe, I love you even if you don’t always love me, and I still think you’re handsome even if there are flecks of crayon on your dress shirts.


The Post Where I Talk SMACK About My Dad

My Dad is the reigning Great Unwashed Super Fan. He’s the first to read most posts and he laughs the loudest when I read drafts to him. However it has been brought to my attention that I regularly write nice things about my Dad but have yet to do so about my Mom.

So Mom this post is for you.

The last week of June was a hard one for me. It was extremely busy but more importantly I had to shower FOUR TIMES. I’m going to repeat that last statement so the extent of my hardship can be fully comprehended – I showered FOUR TIMES.

It was awful, I was constantly clean, which made the clothing sniff test much harder because while normal people sniff a shirt and think “Does this smell clean?” I inhale the scent of my worn clothing and think “Does this smell cleaner than me?”

And last week the answer was nearly always “No”.

So I set about regressing to my mean of 2.5 showers a week by not bathing for five days. I arrived at my parent’s house on the fourth day of not showering; pungent but not quite grimy. My curly hair formed tight corkscrews that leapt off my head in all directions and my skin had the glow of a well rested hippie. Please note that although hippies would have you believe their excellent constitution and radiant skin comes from their locally grown, organic only diet, it’s actually from not bathing.

However my Grandmother’s eighty-ninth birthday was the following evening so I had planned to shower then. Before my father was set to return home I jumped in the tub and washed my dirt coated self including my corkscrew curls.

I jumped back out and my hair set about drying immediately, because that’s what short curly hair does- whatever the heck it feels like. And at that moment it felt like drying into perfect tight curls.

Fast forward half an hour, I’ve celebrated my newly washed state by running through my parents’ garden and am now sitting on my mother’s bed with clean, dry, curly hair and freshly dirt-coated feet. My father arrives home from work and sits down on the bed.

Dad- “I was figuring we’d leave in half an hour?”

Mom and The Great Unwashed – “We’re ready.”

Dad looks at The Great Unwashed- “When was the last time you washed your hair?”

The Great Unwashed in an indignant tone that conveys that if this is how she will be treated after showering she may never do so again- “Today!”

Dad – “Oh”

It’s called dirty blonde for a reason.

So that’s my talking smack about Dad post. Only then I turned to my mother and asked “Do I look unkempt?”

To which she replied, “No you look like you.”

Mom, for the record it would be a lot easier if you didn’t write the material for me.


Anyway so fast forward to the end of the night when I realize that even after being shoved into white socks and running through wet grass that my feet are still dirty. My father is generally complimentary; he’s the first one to tell me I look pretty or that a dress matches my eyes. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, and do some further questioning before writing smack about him.

The Great Unwashed perches at the top of the stairs while Dad assembles a midnight snack- “Dad, did you look at my feet before you asked about my hair earlier?”

Dad- “No, why?”

The Great Unwashed now contemplating stewing in her own bodily fluids for eternity again says in a huffy manner “No reason.”



Apparently I look unwashed even when I’m partially clean. I will never bathe again. Or at least I may not shower until Roscoe threatens grab the garden hose and spray me with it prison style if I don’t grab some soap myself.

Puzzle Shopping

So this post is a little late. I wrote it on Canada’s birthday weekend. That’s right all my international readers, you missed Canada’s birthday. But it’s ok. I don’t know your birthday so I certainly don’t expect you to know mine or my country’s for that matter. Although I do expect you to know about my toe bandaids. They’re amazing and protect the soles of your toes from forming blisters in any type of footwear. These bandaids are so awesome that it doesn’t even matter that I haven’t invented them yet.


Roscoe bought me a puzzle for the long weekend.

A bit of information for my non-Canadian friends; around here we take the birth of our nation very seriously, we discount beer, pack kegs onto trucks and then ship our populous to cottages. The ultimate birthday party. Except I wasn’t invited. Roscoe had important doctor studying to do and wanted me out of his hair, hence he bought me the best puzzle in the whole world.

Nederlands: Cupcake Versiering

Not these exact cupcakes but pretty close. More than once I stopped myself from licking the pieces.(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It featured thirty-nine multicoloured cupcakes. I finished it Monday night just as Roscoe was putting the finishing touches on a set of notes so heavy and cumbersome that they almost match my truck’s snow tires in size and weight.

Buying the world’s best puzzle doesn’t sound like an incredible feat, but it is. Only those who have purchased truly bad puzzles can understand. And tragically, unlike melons, the girls at the checkout won’t tell you when you’ve got a bad one.


Buying a Moldy Melon at the Grocery Store

Cashier at the Grocery Store – “Uh Ma’am?”

The Great Unwashed in a high-pitched, slightly panicked voice – “That will wipe right off! Honest.”

Slightly amused but really just tired Cashier at the Grocery Store- “Huh?”

The Great Unwashed who is visibly relieved at this point-“Never mind.”

Cashier at the Grocery Store- “Do you want to go grab another melon? This one is covered in mold.” Holds up a really, really moldy cantaloupe.

The Great Unwashed recoils- “Uuuoollagh, yes.”


That’s what happens at the grocery store.

This is what DOESN’T happen at the puzzle store.

Cashier at the Puzzle Store-“Uh Ma’am”

The Great Unwashed – “That food colouring from the slushie will come right out after eight washes. I swear. And it was an accident.”

Cashier at the Puzzle Store looking slightly quizzical – “Pardon me?”

The Great Unwashed- “I mean how can I help you?”

Cashier at the Puzzle Store now very confused and a little suspicious- “This puzzle you’ve chosen was poorly cut. Not only will the pieces stick together when you are trying to separate them but they will also stick together in ways that they shouldn’t so you will think you’ve solved it but have two giant handfuls of green and blue seagrass left over.”

The Great Unwashed- “Oh! Thank you so much.”  Runs to put the poorly cut puzzle back and returns with a different puzzle with brighter colours that is slightly more expensive.

Cashier at the Puzzle Store- “Uh Ma’am?”

The Great Unwashed- “Those Jolly Ranchers were there the whole time- Scout’s honor!”

Cashier at the Puzzle Store- “What?”

The Great Unwashed- “Has anyone told you that you are a valued part of our community today?”

Cashier at the Puzzle Store blinks with a questioning look- “Ma’am you look like the kind of woman who is a GIANT pain in the butt. This puzzle, although fun looking is too easy for you. My guess is that you’ll finish it in under six hours and then I have no idea what you are going to get up to. Think one thousand pieces not five hundred.”

The Great Unwashed-“ Why I AM a giant pain in the butt! My husband tells me so every day!” Grabs the entertaining looking puzzle and heads back towards the shelves. “Duly noted, thank you!”


That has never happened to me. Ever. I bring home the worst puzzles and then I either give up from frustration or finish them and cause Roscoe to give up work from the frustration of having me in his hair. However this weekend was the exception. Roscoe bought a colourful, one thousand piece, well cut, difficult, cupcake puzzle. The only thing he heard intermittently all three days was

“I love this puzzle!!!!”

And I did. But now it’s finished, which means the crumby hot air balloon puzzle with washed out colours and pieces that stick all together in ways they shouldn’t, will cover our dining room table.

Someone really ought to invent a puzzle connoisseur or a store where people can go to purchase high end, challenging puzzles in the same manner that you’d buy the contents for fruit salad. Perhaps I shall invent that product rather than continuing with my toe bandaid idea.

Also to all those who sent get well cards- Thank you, I’m feeling much better now. My toe sole blisters have nearly healed.

As well, you might be able to understand from this post why Roscoe has gone around to the food courts in our area and handed out flyers with my face on them with the words “Do Not Sell To This Woman” typed underneath. He accuses me of being a messy eater. I counter that he’s narrow minded and I am merely using the world as my plate. Regardless I’ve noticed an increase in the number of stores in the city which have “No Food At Anytime” signs.