Things in my home that can kill me

YES, THIS IS JUST ANOTHER AIMLESS HOLIDAY SEASON BLAH-G POST.

IT'S OF NO REAL CONSEQUENCE, CERTAINLY, AND BEYOND THE EVERY-DAY THOUGHT PROCESS OF MOST HUMANS, EVEN ME.

But the conception point for this post was borne one day last week when I realized that probably several million things had fallen behind my fridge over the years that I've lived here.

And that I might want to actually move the fridge out and find out what they were.

Where did the lid to that plastic storage container disappear to? Whatever happened to that ticket I had been meaning to pay?

And that's when I realized...there are things in my home that probably CAN kill me.

Now for those of you who might have seen previous posts I've done dealing with the INSIDE of my fridge, well, it's already an established, documented fact that there are living and dead things in there that pose a health hazard.

So we'll spare a revisit.

After I spent a recent afternoon picking up all the items that had fallen behind my fridge and put them through about 18 cycles in the dishwasher, I moved the fridge back in place.

I found no dead mice, if you were wondering.

And then I did a home inspection for other "things in my home that can kill me."

And I believe I might have opened up a whole new field of scientific research that can do nothing but aid humanity in the long term.

My preliminary findings are below.

I've discovered that objects in my home have the capability of being quick killers with immediate and fatal physical consequences or they can be more psychological and kill over time.

This, for example, is one part of a painting called Pipe Dream 1984 that I bought on New Year's Eve, 1984, while mostly drunk. This portion depicts a nuclear holocaust (hello Pakistan 2007!).

I've walked past this painting every day, virtually, for 24 or so years. What do you think the cumulative psychological effects might have been on my brain? Unfathomable.


This is my son's bedroom -- AFTER he's told me he cleaned it up. Enough said.

This is my fridge again, clearly one of the most dangerous single things in my household.

What tiny male brain wouldn't be paralysed and rendered completely useless by this pictorial kaleidoscope of family members and friends?

It boggles the mind and is another example of apparently harmless items potentially having a scatterbrain effect over long-term exposure.

This is my aptly called storage room. I won't even try to guess what menaces may lurk behind all that crap.

And God help me if I ever need to check out my water heater or actually ride my bike.


This is the trap door in the same room, a door I've previously blogged about and, in fact, opened up to the larger world.

I believed at the time there were zombies beneath there or at least corpses, if not plenty of mice.

So in a landmark, danger-filled expedition funded in part by the National Geophysical Weird Things Society, we opened up the crypt and took pictures. We found nothing of note but I continue to hear noises.

This, I believe, could one day get me, somehow.

This is a wall-hanging I brought back from India.

Aside from reminding me of some of the pleasures in life I am not currently enjoying, the images of lopped-off heads, snakes and swords can be unnerving at times.



And it may be that that wall-hanging is having some sort of Kama Sutra effect on my washer-dryer, which is close by.

The washer goes merrily and efficiently through its cycle but then the dial on the right always stops at the "spin" cycle. And it won't spin.

The clothes are still wet and I can't put them in the dryer and then go to sleep.

So I have to fiddle with the little nob, back and forth, back and forth, like breaking a combination lock on a safe, to get the spin cycle going again...

...So it will rev itself up into that orgasmic-like frenzy towards its climax. This seems eerily like something else, but I can't put my finger on it.

Anyway, my theory is that the cumulative effect of such ongoing frustration could very well shorten my life, because the landlord has known about this problem for months and still hasn't fixed it.

Nor have they fixed my smoke/heat detector, which emits the loudest, most high-pitched "beep-beep-beep" I've ever heard when it senses the temperature in my apartment has exceeded 20 degrees Celsius.

I'm almost serious. I can barely cook an egg or fry bacon and the stupid thing goes off, forcing me to force my son to wave a towel around it for minutes on end to get it to stop blaring in our ears.

I've disconnected it, meaning that if a real fire actually broke out, I'd be dead meat.


But the most dangerous thing of all, bar-none, is this Old Ship given to me by my mom.

It's made of very light and very sharp tin or something or other. I've cut myself on it several times and so has my son.

I have dreams about it falling on me and severing my carotid artery or something, so it poses both a long-term fear and a real physical threat.

I'd love to hear what things in your home could actually kill you.

A HA-HA-HA-HAPPY CHRISTMAS

'TWAS THE NIGHT OF CHRISTMAS AND ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE

NOT A CREATURE WAS STIRRING, NOT EVEN A MOUSE

OK, that's not true. I'm stirring. And I think I can hear the mice or leprechauns or whatever they are in the crawlspace beneath my apartment's floor stirring too.

It may be I'm the only blogger on the planet who's actual writing a new blog post tonight, on Christmas night.

It's the peculiarities of being single, with kids who don't live with me full-time, and everyone else doing their family thing, and our big family thing falling, as it always seems to, on Boxing Day.

My highlight of any Christmas Day is when I go pick up my kids and bring them over here to exchange gifts and just to be what we are and who we are and make jokes and have fun and throw in lots of hugs.

And here, more or less, is how that went with my two munchkins, who are no longer, really, munchkins, although my daughter does a good impression at barely above five feet and my son always puts on his goofiest pose...



A scene-setter:

My daughter phones me at around 11. She sounds grumpy on Christmas morning. My son, from his bedroom at their mom's place, has phoned my daughter, in her bedroom at their mom's place, at 9 a.m.

She's been out til 2:30 or so on Christmas Eve. He didn't know she was in her own bed, at home, sleeping. He thought she was at her cousin's house, with her -- gulp, boyfriend -- looking after their house as they vacation in Florida.

Son: "Hey, when are you getting up? Want to open presents now?"

Daughter: "Harumph!"

At 11 a.m. or so, I get a phone call from a cranky woman. It's time for me to go and pick them up.

They arrive. Son gets phone call from latest girlfriend in Thompson, about a seven-hour drive to the north of here (takes after his dad with the long-distance relationships, apparently), disappears into his bedroom.

He emerges.

We open gifts, etc. Daughter suggests we play a game. This is partly about how I DID NOT MANAGE to find her The Game of Life, Twists and Turns version, as she had requested. Instead, I bought her a crock pot.

At twice the price.

As a result, she's a crank pot (not really, but it's really fun saying that).

She more or less forces son and I into playing with her the original Game of Life I had bought her several Christmases ago.

We appear to have no choice. She's the banker, of course. She's the controller, the dictator, the rule-setter, the omnipresent one.

Of course, she decides she'll go to university. Son and I decide we'll go the career route.

I finish last, she finishes first, as women always do, and goofy teen son is somewhere in the middle, having sabotaged me at his every opportunity, both of them laughing hysterically at my every cataclysm.

But not before I have my own fun knocking her little car and family and kids off the track from time to time, and stealing my son's career and higher wage only to see him steal it back.

Still, it's a forgone conclusion...I end up with $1.2 million, if lucky; she's got well over $2 mill. Son ends up somewhere in between.

I make her clean the game up, nonetheless, asserting my parental authority.

Then he goes to his room to play with his new PSP game (and the game I got him FOR that), while daughter, who IS Mother Christmas in my eyes, curls up to watch some TV with her resplendent Christmas tree earrings.


She poses with the wallet she bought me, for which I will have to try to earn money to fill...

In the meantime, I force my son to let me take a pic or two of him playing on his PSP (PlayStation Portable).

My daughter forces me to try on the green penguin PJ bottoms she bought for me...along with the "Perry Como" slippers I asked her to buy for me...

Then I force my daughter to pose for a pic with me, but I forget to smile...

It being very difficult to do two things at once for any male, after three or four pix, I finally figure out how to both smile and take the pic at the same time...

Then, of course, comes the most fun part of all, me trying to take a pic of all three of us at once...

My son and I both laughed hysterically at this opening attempt...

This one was way off-centre...

This one might have worked except for my daughter dangling her tongue...

This one was too close-in and cut off my son...

But this one, despite my unkempt, unshaven and nosehair-ridden reality, worked.

I hope you had a truly FUN Christmas, filled with laughs, love and memories.

And to you all, a toast -- from one penguin to another...

...to a terrific 2008.

MERRY CHRIS-TMAS

I was going to write each of you letters inside Christmas cards from the North Pole, but as with everything else about the festive season, I waited til the last minute.

So this will have to suffice.

We all know Christmas can be a stressful time, and that maybe it has lost some of its lustre with the focus on presents and commercialism.

But it's still what it always was, if you get past all that...a time to be with the people you love.

So while Santa sets out on his journey to your house tonight -- he couldn't find room for me on his sled -- I'll be thinking of you all...

...and hoping a tingly, unmistakably good feeling of warmth envelopes your heart.

The REAL Queen of England

AS MOST OF YOU KNOW, THE QUEEN IS STILL ALIVE AND REIGNING OVER US COMMONWEALTH SUBJECTS.

And as we in the UK, Canada and other Commonwealth countries say or sing: Long Live the Queen or God Save the Queen.

(Although those hats HAVE TO GO! OK, we don't sing that, but that's just me).

In fact, her Royal Highnessnessness just this week became the oldest-ever living British monarch, at 81 years and 244 days (and counting).

That surpasses the previous UK record of her great-great-grandmother, Queen Victoria, the incredibly exquisite woman below.

While she's the oldest-ever living British monarch, Elizabeth is not the longest-serving at Buckingham Palace.

She will be if she can make it, with crown still on head and standing upright, until Sept. 9, 2015 -- she'd be 89, we'd assume -- at which time she would take that title too, from Victoria.

And according to one source, she had 425 Queen-related engagements in 2007 alone, so she's still going strong and shows few signs of slowing down.

When I was a kid growing up, we always sang God Save the Queen. Our gracious Queen. She became queen three years before I was born, so she's always been a part of my life.

There are plenty of feelings here in Canada and, I'm sure, in other current or one-time Commonwealth nations -- like Australia, New Zealand, the Phillippines, India, etc. -- that it's time for the monarchy to be abandoned, at least by us.

But there are also monarchists here and in many other countries who love what the Queen and what our ties to the UK and mean...

...In terms of our history and all, our heritage, the nation we've become. And, like much of the rest of the world, many people here still love her and the rest of the Royal Family.

I'm not sure I hold a strong opinion either way.

I think I probably lean more to seeing her and the British royalty as nothing but figureheads, but there still is some affinity we have with the UK that's unlike any other we have with other countries.

In any event, without any intent to offend, I wanted to say there's another British Queen to rival the real one, at least in my world.

Twelve years after the last episode was filmed in Coventry, I can still see her on public TV, every day, here in Canada. She's much funnier and more outrageous. But she still wears stupid hats.

And this is her.

She's Hyacinth Bucket (she pronounces it Bouquet, starring Patricia Routledge). She was the star of a brilliantly funny UK sitcom called Keeping Up Appearances, which aired on BBC1 from 1990-95.

In 2004, the show was named the 12th best British sitcom ever. It's about a social-climbing snob and her poor husband and their lives together as she tries to climb the social ladder pretending to be what she's not.

And the impression I always had, with the hats she wore and all, was that she thought she was the Queen of England. Or at least trying to be.

At the very least, the show seemed to be a parody of that Uppah British uppah class mentality that's so often portrayed in film and on screen (although to be honest, I never, for a moment, have ever witnessed it in real life).

Anyway...I mean, don't they look at least SOMEWHAT the same?

Even their families seem to have similarities, if you look at it in a humourous, Monty Pythonesque sort of light...

HRH and Prince Philip

Mrs. Bucket and her long-suffering hubby, Rich-awd

Prince Philip in full regalia

Rich-awd in full regalia...and anguish

Prince Chawls, the louse and heir-apparent (oldest ever too, I believe)

Onslow, Hyacinth's beer-swilling slob of a brother-in-law

Prince Chawls and Camilla Pahkuh-Balls

Onslow and his sex-starved wife, Daisy

The Royuhl Family and some big fat guy

The Keeping Up Appearances Family

So while I respect the real Queen, so regal and royal, I just howl in laughter at the other queen, so funny and loyal.

And I trust that Britons, who have the best sense of humour in the world, will giggle too...

...Before they tie me to a stake, lance out my liver and kidneys as they swig back some ale, set me afire while I slowly bleed to death and tell jokes as I take my final breath, gasping "God Save the Queen."

Christmas Day Bash at WW's!!!*

THERE'LL BE PLENTY OF SUPER SEXY GIRLS...and one boy...


AND CERTAINLY MORE FESTIVE AMBIANCE AND SPARKLING LIGHTS THAN YOU CAN FIND ANYWHERE ELSE...

I HAVE PLENTY OF MUSIC TO LISTEN TO AND VIDS TO WATCH...

AND LORDY, THERE'S NO SHORTAGE OF SNOW....

PLUS I HAVE PLENTY OF ROOM FOR YOU TO SLEEP, SHOULD YOU FIND THE NEED TO...

AND I'VE ACTUALLY CLEANED MY BATHTUB, REALLY...

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day can leave me with a lot of time on my hands as my kids do their thing...

SO THE ENTIRE BLOG WORLD IS HEREBY INVITED TO WW'S PLACE ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 2007, TO WILE AWAY THE AFTERNOON AND BEYOND, IF YOU LIKE.

We (the editorial we, that is) realize this might be considered late notice, especially for those in Australia, India, South Africa, the UK, the Phillippines and other locales in Canada and beyond the Great White North.

But you have a week. Get on the phone and book it, Dano. You have Airmiles. You have money you've been saving up just for this trip you were anticipating. You have nothing else to do, no one else to be with. Just do it.

Think of what you'll be missing...time with me and various bloggers instead of with family, friends and others...hor's doeuvres til the cows come home, rum and eggnog, Caesars to your heart's content, beer, jovial conversation...

And, to help you offset the cost of your trip, five Canadian cents for every comment you've ever posted on my blog, to be calculated by you. Wives, husbands and significant others are, of course, welcome.

RSVP to my email address. Homo Escapeons will provide comic relief.

(*This is just a joke, although if anyone actually shows up, knock yourselves out!)