I don’t think I can eat bread anymore. This is a new thing for me, having a colon that is approaching fifty years old, and, being a cantankerous old biddy, she seems to be unhappy with bread. And dairy.
Wine is fine. Thank the Gods.
It was a cloudy day. A dark and stormy night, if you will, except it was daytime. My Love was at work, my spawn were pursuing their various spawn-like activities, and I was alone with an entire day to maché.
Except for the bread. Which I ate for breakfast. Which my colon disapproved of.
When I say I was free to maché, you, gentle reader, must understand the near-manic passion with which I pursue the maché. I am making fishermen, mermaids, piping plovers, fish, eyeballs, hands, cats, puppets… and Marilyn Monroe.
My Love: “It’s ok, you know, to take a break. You don’t have to maché every minute of every day.”
Me: “I love you, but… I MUST MAKE THE MACHÉ!”
He backs away slowly, hands raised in bewildered surrender.
Marilyn is my newest challenge. Life sized. Anatomically accurate. Marilyn was 5’ 5”, with measurements of 35”, 22”, 35”. I bet she could eat bread and not suffer the consequences.
When making a life-sized maché model, it is important for it not to be too heavy. It has to be portable and liftable, so I try to add the least weight possible as I build it.
Enter: Expanding Insulation Foam.
Lightweight. Carve-able. Priceless.
Marilyn’s boobs and hips. Impressive physical features which would be perfect for the expanding foam idea.
On this day of days… a day with NO ONE home to thwart me… or offer good advice, or counsel, or warning… I decided to build Marilyn’s boobs out of expanding foam.
Technically, it was a great idea. Except I had to keep running to bathroom, because of the bread and the almost-fifty-year-old colon, and except for the fact that expanding foam is NOT firm when it first comes out of the can, and it is NOT mold-able when it’s oozing down Marilyn Monroe’s chest.
I sprayed on perky, feisty, 35” bust sized breasts… and then they did what all good breasts must do… they sagged. Dramatically. Like my own. I grabbed onto them, with both hands, and tried to gently tease them back into place.
I should have asked My Love for advice on the man-handling of breasts. He is an expert. I should have realized the futility of fighting gravity. I should have read this warning on the top of the can…
Always wear gloves. Oh. Really?
I shouldn’t have eaten bread for breakfast.
When you google “how to remove expanding foam from skin”, you get a variety of suggestions ranging from dire warnings of “WEAR GLOVES” to “gasoline”, “acetone”, and most impressively “Forget it. If it dries, you’ll peel off your skin trying to remove it.”.
Both of my hands were covered with expanding foam, which gets oddly sticky and syrupy when you touch it, to the point that my fingers were growing webs between them and I felt a strange compulsion to try to climb the walls of the house like Spiderman.
IT WOULD NOT WASH OFF.
I WASHED MY HANDS FIFTEEN TIMES.
Dish liquid. Dove. GoJo. Rubbing alcohol. No success.
I managed to clean off one fingertip, enough to text My Love for help.
Me: I have expanding foam all over my hands. Help me!
My Love: You should have worn gloves.
There are moments in every relationship when death by dismemberment is a distinct possibility for the object of one’s affection.
This was one of those.
Me: Duh. Will gasoline work?
Pause of several silent moments wherein he does not reply and I run wildly to the garage, ever cautious of flammables.
Me: Gas doesn’t work. I now stink and am STILL sticky! HELPME!
My Love: I googled it. Acetone.
There are moments in every relationship when one half of the partnership glares into a cell phone, screeching: “WHAT THE FUCK IS ACETONE?”
This was about the time that my almost-fifty-year-old colon remembered that it had eaten bread that morning, and it was unhappy with this dietary choice.
My Love: White bottle.
There are moments in every relationship when one half of the partnership explores the other half’s organizational planning in the garage, whilst trying to prevent one’s fingers from permanently sticking together, whilst valiantly fighting the urge to poop, when that one half wonders aloud… WHERE THE FUCK IS THE ACETONE?
This, was one of those.
The combination of expanding foam, dove soap, gasoline and acetone creates a kind of slick, plastic-like covering that get particularly clumpy between the fingers and in odd random streaks on the forearms that you don’t notice until hours afterwards when you are lying in bed with Your Love and you start picking at your arms like a monkey looking for lice. You hope that the burning sensation will stop, as you also hope that whatever ingredients are in the hand moisturizer you immersed your hands in will not react badly with the acetone, which you did manage to find, in the white bottle, moments before you had to dash to the loo because of the bread, with the expanding foam all over your hands, fearful that you were about to explore a whole new definition of “crack filler”.
This, is how I roll.
Today… two days later… I have peeled off the most offensive of the crusty residue on my hands and Marilyn has boobs that are virtually sag-proof. (Would that we could all paper maché our boobs in place for eternity).
I don’t think my skin is going to peel off, but my hands look like they belong to an eighty year old man instead of an almost-fifty-year-old woman with a weak colon.
And the moral of the story…?
Don’t eat bread when you’re going to be alone with your imagination and the necessity to make 35″ breasts on a dark and stormy night.
Except that it was daytime.
And always… ALWAYS… know where he keeps the acetone.
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