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.

Foot in F*cking Mouth

I’ve only been at my new job for a month, so I’m still getting to know my colleagues and what makes them tick. Or should that be who makes them tick?

I was sitting with Claire, helping her with a TVC script when Sonja, our producer wandered over to Claire’s desk. She’d got engaged the night before and was showing off her beautiful ring. Squeaks of congratulations were flying through the air space of the open plan office. She was glowing, blushing, grinning from ear to ear.

Me: How did he propose? (Nothing wrong with that question? It’s the obvious one, right? WRONG!!!!!!)
S & C, in unison: She.
Me: Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Soooo sorry! (Wishing that the ground would open up and swallow me.)

Just when you think you’ve got the liberal thing down, your traditional worldview, which has probably been lurking in the dark recesses of your conscious jumps up and bites you in the ass. I’m ashamed that my first thought was from my hetro point of view. Have I been programmed or am I just so immersed in my self-centered point of view that I just assumed that everyone’s like me?

Sonja said it was fine, how was I to know. Indeed. The truth is that I don’t really care one way or another what the significant other’s gender is as long as people find people who make them happy and feel loved.

Perhaps we need to find a new derivative of s/he, you know like the “word” waitron. Waiter/esses no long have a gender. Perhaps genders shouldn’t have a gender. Okay, I know that doesn’t make sense, but it would make it a lot easier for faux pas idiots like me.

Juxtaposition

Yesterday evening I was having a smoke on my balcony. When I'm still coming down from the day I tend to lean into the balcony wall and dangle myself over it, with a few feeble pliés thrown in for good measure. What else is there to do when you're just standing there? (It's all part of the music video that is my life.) So, I was in this position yesterday evening when, down in the street below, a man wobbled past on a bicycle.

What fascinated me was that he was wearing a very smart black suit and a crisp white shirt. He had shiny, black formal shoes, doing their best to look convincing on the pair of pedals, sunglasses and dark hair, peppered with grey. And I wondered, what on earth was he doing on a bicycle? I imagined a gleaming Roadster, or a Jag, would be the order of the day. But there he was on his bike! What made it more amusing for me, was that I could tell by the rate at which his legs were pumping, he was in "granny gear". He looked as uncomfortable as his look.

He looked up and caught me watching him. I should have smiled. But I wanted to look, oh I don't know, pensive. (It's all part of the movie that is my life.) He cycled on, watching me all the while. I dragged on my ciggie, watching him all the while. And then he took the corner and was gone.

Corporate-man-on-bike. I will never know you, or your story. I'll never understand why you chose to ride that day. You were there for a few seconds and then you were gone. And if I hadn't gone out to feed my habit I would never have spotted you. Or be left wondering.

But, you on your bike, in your suit, makes me feel alive and real, because not every thing is supposed to make sense.