Magical WD40, moldy fame and wtf did I just get myself into?

I had a strange dream last night. I was on the Starship Enterprise, but it looked more like a futuristic cruise ship similar to this:

I'm guessing there was some kind of invisible shield around the pool so the water doesn't slop out during deep-space travel

Also, we weren't in space, we were hovering over Granville Street in Vancouver. Suprisingly, none of the pedestrians thought there was anything unusual about a flying cruise ship, so I'm thinking we must have been in the future, where cruise ship fly around city streets with impunity and no one worries getting crushed by a falling lifeboat or some glutton who slips into a sugar coma and falls off the ship after their 6th trip in a row to the chocolate buffet.

Anyways my mission was to find out which people and part of the ship had been secretly taken over by something like the Borg but not the Borg. I had a magical can of WD40 that I ran around spraying on anything I suspected was compromised...the WD40 gave off a blue glow when sprayed on anything infected and also reversed the effects. I was a fucking hero and Captain Picard was so impressed he gave me unlimited access to his personal "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot." machine.

Exactly what I was wondering. Because EVERYONE already has access to tea on the Enterprise. Where the hell is my Starfleet medal and a free pass to the planet of DisneyLandWorldUniverse (opening date TBA in 482 years)

In other news, my stupidity has apparently paid off because I was asked if I'd be interested in doing an interview for a  consumer webshow regarding my ignorance in how to deal with mold (FYI: "bleaching the shit out of it" is not the answer and you can read about my dumbassery  here ). I am truly honored that someone would ask me to admit to my domestic failings in a public forum...although given my email reply, which contained the following sentences:

"I was worried about all the potential spores and fuck-knows-what kind of toxins I breathed in but thankfully I remembered that chances are my lungs have an impenetrable coating of hairspray on them from 20+ years of hairstyling, so I figure I'm immune. At least that's what I've been telling myself to keep me from going on WebMD to find out I have mold-induced lung plague."

I would not be surprise if my invitation was revoked. So we'll see.

Finally, I decided to hop on the band wagon and participate in this and if you're feeling up to posting 26 times in April, you should do the same

Monday morning Pinterest hangover

I seem to have developed a pattern on Sundays of whiling away far too many hours on The Pinterest. I have no interest in smiling babies, puppies doing cute things or 438 pins of the DIY centerpieces you want for your wedding...but I do enjoy rednecks, duct tape and food that I would never allow to touch my lips in this lifetime, and I'm assuming there are other people out there who enjoy the same...and we all know that sharing is caring. So I present to those people some of my best (or possibly worst)  pins I found this week:

Dear Fashion: I just don't get you. At all.

I do love bacon but maybe not this much

This shows exactly how I feel about Valentines Day. Except on Feb 15 when all the chocolate is marked down

I'm kicking myself for not saving my uterus after my hysterectamy so I could make it into a lamp...WHAT WAS i THINKING???

My brain just melted from the confusion

 

Mmmm....Spaghetti-O aspic topped with Vienna Sausage. My favourite, said no one

Handling plutonium would have been less horrific

I decided to be all domestic and shit this morning and all it brought me was a possible death sentence.

I should probably explain that statement.

In the middle of cleaning my apartment, I took the full garbage bag out of the garbage can. And noticed something at the bottom. In my defence, the inside of the can is black and I tend not to notice if there’s anything stuck at the bottom…which will never happen again because what has been seen? Cannot be unseen.

I’m assuming it used to be a piece of pizza, because it was triangular in shape, but that’s where any resemblance to actual food ended. It was grey and green and whatever the fuck had colonized on it had spread all over the bottom of the can. It looked like a science project about mold had gone awry and taken on a life of it’s own. After a few choice curse words and throwing up in my mouth, I put on an oven mitt with a plastic bag over top of it and gingerly eased it into another plastic bag inside a second plastic bag. I’m pretty sure people who handle plutonium transport it less carefully than I moved this alien creature. Then I realize I need to clean out the can itself, so I hauled out my trusty jug of bleach.

I should have thought that through a little more first.

Because you know what happens when you spray bleach into a mold colony? All the fucking mold spores react in horror and attempt to make their escape in a cloud of powdery dust, which caused a lot of shrieking and resulted in me tying a dishcloth over my face for protection, because at that point my thought was “sweet raptor jebus, how much of that shit did I just breath in???? My lungs are full of fucking mold spores! MOTHERFUCKING SPORES!!!” Which also made me realize there is an untapped market for home hazmat suits and respirators and why has someone not gotten on that shit???

Needless to say, once I finished the mold removal from the can, I spent the next hour bleaching every single surface of my kitchen, and another half hour in the shower scalding myself and scrubbing off the first couple layers of skin. I kind of felt like Meryl Streep in Silkwood, minus the radiation. But the hysteria was pretty close.

I’m really hoping all the bleach fumes I breathed in counteract the mold spores. Because I really don’t want to die a horrible death brought on by old pizza and my lack of good housekeeping skills. That would just be embarrassing.

Theme Thursday: My boobs could have won a 4-H competition

Before my son was born, I made the decision to breastfeed. Mostly because it’s convenient and free. I was lucky because my son took all of one feeding to figure out how it worked which was a good thing because I sure the hell didn’t know what I was doing. The first time,  the nurse at the hospital basically grabbed my boob and positioned it the right way, which was something before childbirth I would have objected to (having a strange woman grope me, that is). But after pushing almost 9 pounds of human being out of my body in front of various medical professionals who saw way more of me than I’m sure anyone has ever seen, or WANTED to see, getting my breast and nipple pawed and adjusted was really no big deal.

Fortunately, my son took to breast-feeding like a fish to water, and he was very efficient about the whole thing (10-15 minutes, start to finish). Unfortunately he was hungry ALL THE TIME and he ate so fast you could hear him gulping and snarfing down milk from the other room. I had been warned that babies usually spit up a little after a feeding but I was not prepared for the metric ton of breast milk he’d happily hoark up on me after every feeding. I walked around with 3 layers of burp cloth permanently attached to my shoulder, but I should have just worn a garbage bag to save on laundry.

I mentioned the frantic gulping and the tsunami of subsequent spit-up top the nurse at the breast feeding clinic…I liked taking him twice a week because I got all OCD about how much weight he gained (lots) and what size percentile he was in (always at the very large end). She suggested I feed him in front of her, so she could see what the deal was, and did I think I could get him to breastfeed right then. Not a problem, lady…it’s lunchtime in his world every 45 minutes or less.

So I fed him and he gulped and snarfled and belched like miniature sailor who just pounded back a six-pack of baby-beer and we ended the performance with a spectacular display of spit-up, which partly landed on the nurse’s shoes. After a brief moment of silence that I think was a bit of shock and awe, she asked me a bunch of questions about my milk supply (massively abundant) and his feeding habits (all the fucking time) and concluded that I was producing enough milk for twins, possibly triplets. And the milk was coming out so fast that my son had to gulp frantically to keep up, which was why about a third of it ended up all down my back every time. Also, my kid was a glutton and the reason I was producing so much milk was because he was sucking so much out at a time. It was a vicious circle. And it also explained why my boobs ballooned up 2 cup sizes and why I could shoot milk about half the length of my house.

Thankfully the milk production eventually slowed down and I could stop worrying that I was going to drown my son with an unstoppable wave of boob-juice, or that he would weight 500 lbs by the time his first birthday rolled around.

Come to think of it, at 13 he still eats like a starving person…just minus the spit up.

Click the button for links to more Theme Thursday posts...do it...DO IT NOW!!!

Payback isn't always a bitch. Sometimes it's a trumpet

I've never met my downstairs neighbours but I am well aquainted with their kid's feet. Specifically, their kid's feet that pound up and down the length of their apartment for hours on end and it sounds like a herd of rampaging elephants with bricks strapped to their feet. It's not really loud as it is horribly thumpy and annoying as fuck. Last night, after about 2 hours of thumpthumpTHUMPthump (seriously, are you letting that kid mainline Red Bull? Because who runs non-stop for that long without chemical enhancement or a hyperactivity disorder??) I was seriously ready to take a roll of duct tape downstairs and do this:

See the smile on her face? She's enjoying her duct tape cocoon

However, despite the fact that the kid might actually like being duct taped to a wall, the parents may not agree. So I jumped up and down on the floor as loud as I could to signal my displeasure.

Tonight is payback time. Because my son has one of these:

It's a trumpet. A very loud trumpet.

Normally he practices at his dad's house because even with a mute, it's still pretty fucking loud and I try to be a considerate neighbour. Not tonight though:

If they don't fear it yet? They will in about 10 minutes

Enjoy the free concert, asshats

You need healthcare. Even without the danger of polar bears.

Dear America:

While I’m happy on your behalf that today is Inauguration Day (or is it Re-inauguration Day because it’s Obama’s second term), I do question your government devoting an entire day to car parades, speeches, dinners and fancy-dress balls. You’re the only first world country without universal health care and you’re dangling on the edge of a fiscal cliff (which I will admit I’m not exactly sure what that phrase even means…I’m assuming it has something to do with a shit-ton of debt and both parties spending far too much time arguing and bitching over whose fault it is instead of…I don’t know…FIXING THE PROBLEM???), yet you’re ok with spending eleventy million dollars (note: that may be a slight exaggeration. It’s probably only tenity million. My accountant is on holiday, so I don’t have the figures in front of me. Fine. I have no accountant and can barely do math on a calculator, and only when I’m forced to), on what amounts to a bunch of blah-blah-blah, a (probably overcooked) steak dinner, and some singing by a bunch of celebrities who you know are only performing because chatting with Michelle Obama about her dress and discussing how to sneak past your security team when you have a secret craving for 6 Dairy Queen hot fudge sundaes is the ultimate star-fuck, especially when you’re already a star and usually the fuckee.

Let me tell you, in Canada, when our Prime Minister is sworn in, it’s a 3 minute ceremony followed by beer, poutine and drunken karaoke featuring Celine Dion tunes at the local pub. It’s casual, relaxed and most importantly, costs $1057.44. And the majority of that is for the beer tab. Because we prefer healthcare to expensive pomp and ceremony. Also, it’s too fucking cold up here for ballgowns, which look stupid with thermal underwear. Plus running from polar bears is difficult in high heels. Those assholes are fast, you know.

Anyfuckingways, in the future, you may want to consider making some economic changes to where your hard-earned tax dollars go. Especially when it’s for a party you’re not even invited too, which is almost like shades of high school. Seriously people…you don’t even get a piece of cake out of the deal. I’d bitch if I were you.

Yours sincerely,

Your northern neighbour who has healthcare. And needs it due to all the rampaging polar bears

You have to admit this shit is way better than some stupid chair cover in ribbons and toile

I’m always in awe of  DIYourselfers. No so much the people who can sew a quilt out of old concert t-shirts, make their own all natural deodorant or build a hairband holder out of an old wooden frame. Those people piss me off because when they post a pic of some craft they completed with “Nailed It” written as a caption, you just want to punch them in the esophagus for their smugness, especially when you know full well that if you attempted to knit your own candle cozies there would be a lot of swearing, vodka and furniture-kicking…and would likely end with an unlucky family member getting stabbed in the thigh with a knitting needle when they had the audacity to ask ‘what the hell is that supposed to be??”

No, the DIY people I admire are the ones who stray far away from what would be consider normal in polite society and create shit like this:

Beaver Babies (by http://www.oneclassymotha.com/ ) Because what better way to teach you kids about the facts of life than with felt vaginas? I particularly love the pubic hair detail...inspired!!

While I'm really not sure if this is supposed to be a viking helmet or a Satan mask, who gives a shit because IT'S MADE OUT Of BACON!!!

Huge props to whoever came up with this costume idea...it's takes massive balls(or is that ovaries??) to walk around  a party dressed like a giant used maxi pad

Not only is this underwear, but it's an emergency snack! Or a sex toy for  the beef jerky fetish community