Where do you go to my lovely…

when you are brushing your teeth? Staring into the mirror last night, thinking that I really need to get a new toothbrush, I pondered yet again why they never seem to use toothpaste in the movies. Thorough teeth brushing can be a messy business (well for me anyway: fcuk, I’ve messed toothpaste on my top over my right boob, again, and need to change the top!). Extended brushing can also mean a slightly unpleasant burning sensation, which I hope means that the toothpaste is working. (Or it could mean that my tongue is extra sensitive because I'm a smoker, nah!) Still, surely the Special FX department can invent some foamy, non-drip, non-burny substance that makes it look more realistic than in the movies? And really, does ANYONE brush their teeth for that long?

Then (still brushing) I wondered when people first learnt to douse their toothpaste with water before brushing. And whether it’s in the instructions on the box. Are there instructions on a toothpaste box? I’ve never looked! (Mental note to look the next time I buy a tube.)

So that got me to thinking about when toothpaste was invented (spit), I mean I know they used to use ash (rinse), but toothpaste, as we know it, (spit).

I started Googling and skimming through reams of info, and came across this diagram, which I thought was infinitely more interesting than the history of toothpaste!

The red area represents the material used for stripes, and the rest is the main toothpaste material. The two materials are not in separate compartments; they are sufficiently viscous that they will not mix. Applying pressure to the tube causes the main material to issue out through the pipe. Simultaneously, some of the pressure is forwarded to the stripe-material, which is then pressed onto the main material through holes in the pipe.

So now I'm wondering how many holes and how many colours it's possible to add. And wouldn't that be cool?

Just one squeeze and it’s fun, Mum!

DIY Jane

I woke up early on Saturday, 14 Feb. That’s what happens when the cats are thundering around the flat, which always ends in hissing and a disgruntled meow from Duchess. I blame myself really, I’ve never taught Oscar to play gently. And now the neighbour’s cat (who’s come to stay for a while) is baring the brunt of his roughhousing. At least she’s getting a bit of action!

I pottered around and had a flash of brilliance. Time to put my new drill (asked for and received at Christmas) to good use. (New drill doesn’t mean I had an old drill, new as in, it’s still in its box and the act of drilling completely uncharted territory.)

I sat on my bed with the bits (and pieces), the drill and its instruction manual… I was hoping for a Drilling 101 but instead got the specifics on MY drill and not much else. Hmm. There’s a lot I could figure out from watching the men in my family but after reading the list of warnings as long as my arm, I was hesitant to start (and a little terrified). I ran my fingertips gently over the smooth casing and slipped the drill bits from their pouch. Hmmm, which one to choose? Size matters… right?

It didn’t escape me that here I was on Valentine’s Day without a man and in need of one. I herded the cats out of the room, plugged in the drill and prepared to fumble my way through it. I fingered the trigger and tested its speed. All it needed was a little pressure. Then I aimed and pushed, gently then harder.

I screwed the mini-coat-hook-thingy lovingly to the wall, stood back and wished I’d had the foresight to buy a spirit level. (A little too the left.) But, spirit not broken and completely satisfied I lit a cigarette and SMSed Ash (the only other chick I know with her own drill) to report on my latest conquest.

You know what they say, if you want a job done properly, do it yourself!
Happy Valentine’s Day to me, and for once, I wasn’t disappointed.

Stretch to yawn

It's Friday and I've got that Friday Feeling, aka doing precious little except browsing my favourite sites that I've sorely neglected lately. Except that, when you don't check a blog for a while there is reams and reams to read, which is infinitely more satisfying.

I also know that I've sorely neglected my own blog. If it were a child it would be in foster care and I'd be in gaol. The thing is, at the moment, I'm only able to think in Facebook Status lines. Which is shocking.

If my brain isn't occupied elsewhere, I catch my thoughts offering minute-by-minute updates: Wendy is/feels/thinks/wonders/shouldn't... So, I've made up my mind to exercise my writing muscle and force my way out of one-dimentional thought. Ka-boom.