Remorse and Redemption in Bed…

Click Bait, Friends, This Just In!, ,

Confession time. That is the clickiest of click bait titles ever. I’d apologize, but if you clicked it, you deserve what’s coming to bore you stupid. To everyone else, welcome back! I’ve missed you. Ahem, where was I? Oh yes…

I try to be careful with money, in that, I shop at second hand stores and will rummage through giant bins at Goodwill depots looking for super cheap stuff. But every once in a while, I snap and I buy an expensive (read overpriced) item. And subsequently come to regret it. This is one of those stories.

* * * * *

Winter is coming, I scroll through Facebook marketplace trying to find a new comforter cover. I feel the need to upgrade because the one I currently own–and bought all the matching pillows for–is getting old. I see something I like and click it before realizing it is a link to Etsy or one of those other dubious product websites offered as click bait. (Fool me once…apparently fool me every single time.)

To make a long story about waffling back and forth on whether or not to buy this very expensive but pretty comforter cover short, I plunk down my credit card and wait for it to arrive.

That’s about when the case of faux bed bugs happened. If you missed that infectious tale, see post link Lesson the Second.

As I am recovering from an episode of my life I call The Itchy Bitchy Whiny Woman and the Itty Bitty Very Bad Bugs, I see that there are matching pillow shams to go with the duvet. I order them despite the fact they cost an indecent amount…each. (Go ahead, guess. You’ll be wrong.) After they arrive, one-at-a time, I store them un-opened until the plague of infectious pests passes.

A month later, when I am certain I am louse free, I open the bag to discover what my pretty floral mortgage payment bought me:

I bet you are thinking, what’s wrong? It doesn’t look that bad! Congratulations. You obviously do not have OCD.

What I had not understood from the carefully crafted images on line, was not only was this a printed fabric (meaning someone took a jpeg and plopped it like a giant photocopy onto a base fabric, but that they also enlarged that image to stretch to fill the much bigger area of the duvet.) Thus incurring my wrath forevermore. (If that is not a word, it should be.)

Those of you who take photographs or work with low-quality images can tell you–smaller print images hide flaws that enlarging them reveals. On the pillows, the flowers look pretty normal–if a little faded because the color wasn’t as vibrant in person either. Pictures lie! But the duvet cover revealed the terrible truth. Enlarged…oh, man…you could see the ragged, pixelated edges of the flowers–which were about ten times as big as the flowers on the pillow shams. The duvet looked fuzzy and slightly out of focus. It may not bother most people, but it bothered the heck out of me.

Here they are side by side and with my hand as a measure of scale.

Here is the duvet right next to the pillow sham.
And here is my hand. The duvet flowers are enormous! (The hand is medium big.)

When I went back to the seller to complain, I noticed that there was a No Returns/No Refunds policy. Sigh.

I moped about this purchase for months afterward. I never used the set. They are still bagged up somewhere in my house. This story might have remained a sad life lesson, but there came a moment of karmic balance when my friend Sheryl posted that she was taking in sewing projects to make some extra money.

I told her my sad story. Mentioned that there was a pattern of sheets I bought that I absolutely love. But, the sellers on Amazon did not have any bedspreads to match. She offered to make the duvet cover for a very reasonable price. And, I bought an extra set of sheets so she could make a matching bed skirt to replace my old one.

I just love my great big beautiful bed! Don’t you!

I guess the aphorism is true.

Revenge is a dish best served on a bed of roses!

[FOOTNOTE: For those of you groaning at that malapropism, be grateful I could not come up with a variation on “Making one’s bed and having to lie in it.” You’re welcome.]

Tongue on Fire

Crisis DuJour, From My Brain to Yours, Highly Flammable, Self-flagellation, This Just In!, , , , ,

There are no cookies this Christmas.

There is no tree.

There are only presents because of last-minute-guilt, remote shopping, and insane wrapping at midnight.

Do Rappers have this problem when they write songs? I wonder.

Miso bossy and Miso Snoop!

We do not travel to see the lights.

Instead I huddle at home, being a giant lump of coal with a couch instead of a stocking.

Because my tongue hurts. All the time.

My tongue has hurt for over three months now.

I keep eliminating things:

Thinking I had OAS, I stopped eating foods that hurt me. (Oral Allergy Syndome–I thought tomatoes hated me.)

I change a mouth guard, thinking it might have latex.

I stop two new medications–one of which does have associated neuropathy of the tongue as a rare side effect–it’s week three now and I am thinking that isn’t the problem.

Last night, I tried taping my mouth shut only to bite myself in my sleep. (Okay, those of you laughing your asses off, I know what you are thinking, just stop.)

I still have a tongue that feels burned most of the time. I’ve been eating my weight in yogurt–which is sort of a cyclical nightmare. The more I eat, the more I bite myself and hurt my face two ways.

I am now blaming the CPAP. It’s the only thing I haven’t stopped doing. Basically, I have dry mouth from too much air. AIR IS HURTING ME. That has to be the definition of getting old.

My friend is helping me to try and change settings, but if we can’t fix why my tongue feels like a burnt offering, I don’t know what I am going to do.

So, for those of you who have wondered at my absence–and more particularly lack of holiday cheer–there are reasons beyond the usual.

“I’m just a crabby, crabby girl in a blistered-tongue world. Tryin’ to find a reason to celebrate the season!”

I might need to write a rap about that…all I need is a white-girl rapper name. Make your suggestions. I could use a laugh.

P.S. At one point, I had thrush. Let’s not mention the two weeks of drinking Nystatin oral fungal medication–the same ingredient to treat athlete’s foot. Everything tasted like tinfoil and it felt like my tongue was an insert from an old sneaker. Let’s just agree this never happened, shall we? Kind of my approach the 2025 in general–denial and a whole lot of useless salves to cover the wounds and hoping it will all just go away on its own.

P.P.S. Happy New Year everybody.

Lesson the Second

Crisis DuJour, From My Brain to Yours, Highly Flammable, The Joys of Home Ownership, This Just In!, , , , , , ,

It’s gonna be a Bah Humbug Christmas

I’m making a list and checking it twice.

Finding out where I’ve been naughty or nice.

Grumpy-clause wonders where her money’s gone!

*

September

BedBug False Alarm ($175), real Scabies Fiasco. (Untold dollars.) Still scarred by that experience. Haunted by phantom itching everywhere.

September – October – Deck Detailing (at least $500) Impulse to stain a naked fence leads to, manic purchases and lots and lots of kneeling to sand wood already in place. (Not recommended.) Then comes the staining!

Cold weather is coming, so I hire two neighbor girls to help me out. They are pre-teenagers on the cusp of being human. They are enthusiastic though, like overeager puppies throwing themselves at a basket of rubber balls–things fly everywhere.

Knotty Knotty Pine–While they paint, I run to Home Depot for a variety of supplies – one of which requires me carefully putting a plank of wood in my Toyota Prius V. (The V is important. If I hadn’t owned a V, I wouldn’t have tried this. And, likely have saved myself money and hassle.) There had been a bad board–with a big knot that caused the wood to split mid-way along the rail of our ramp.

I get to the Depot. They are super busy. I decide to just go grab a board, get it cut and get back home. I check out and the cashier hears about my great adventure in deck maintenance. Looks at my board, looks at me and says,

Clerk: “You know this isn’t deck planking, right?“

Me: *Blink Blink Blink* “No. I did not know there was such a thing as deck planking.”[Despite the fact that is exactly what was written on the note a helpful clerk had written up for me.]

I decide, screw it and buy it anyway. How bad could it be if it was a little thicker?

Banging Wood in the Parking Lot: Putting things in my trunk, the cart with the board starts wheeling away. A good Samaritan grabs the cart, then the board, and shoves it in my car and slams my trunk. He waves and walks away having done his good deed for the day.

I walk to the front of the car and see this:

Thicker Wood is Bad! I end up paying for it, and losing a Saturday going to Safelite Auto Glass–being terrified by a giant attack spider–and getting the price of my window down to $436.17.

Anyhow, the day of the window fiasco, I schlump back to my house, cursing my fate to discover…

The girls are staining my deck steps instead of the railing…because they accidentally dumped a pan they were filling with expensive stain down said steps.

*Sigh*

I pay them for three days of labor, but then call it ‘good enough’ because I have to save money because a tree in my yard suddenly looks very under-the-weather. Limbs are turning black and dropping off.

I call the city to ask for help. Turns out, despite the fact that the same city parked in front of my house for about 3 months during the hottest part of the summer and dug up the road right next to this tree, even digging into my property to cap an old water main, their arborist claims my tree was already sick and dying before that happened.

I have my own arborists who agree–digging up the roots definitely could effect the tree. But, I am too tired to fight city hall. I take the lowest bid from Top Down Tree Service so that the tree can come down before the winds can bring it down.

Felled Wood: $1184. Not dropping a tree on a person’s head? Priceless!

Catastrophe almost averted: I am just about to relax when…I come home to find my house filling with gas–the person watching my son is unable to smell death coming.

DTE is called, a very competent woman comes and checks my home. I shiver outside with my son as he has snit fits about the door being open. The next day we call a plumber to replace a Gas Cock (yes, my dryer is a boy!) and we are safe once more.

Sommerdyke Plumbing: I paid $218.75 for that cock.

By November, I am twitching and looking at all my appliances sideways. I’m afraid to go anywhere. (Hold that thought.)

I am feeling the cold winds of winter blowing…through the cracks in my front door. I go to Home Depot and a clerk, who shall not be named, suggests these “EASY TO INSTALL” weather stripping.

Me: “What if there are nails in the way?”

Clerk: “Oh, I’m sure there won’t be–it won’t be a problem.”

SPOILER: It was a problem

Turns out there wasn’t a strip of trim holding the decades old weather stripping in place. Nope, it was the entire door jam and very sunk-in nails doing the job.

SIDEBAR: Perhaps certain people shouldn’t own crowbars? Maybe licensing should be required?

Thankfully, there is an area service provider I call in emergencies that I have caused.

It is not called HELP ME I SCREWED UP AGAIN but it should be!
Home Repair Services of Kent County takes my call. This week, I get a call early Monday morning.

WARNING–SERIOUSLY LEWD PARAPHRASING FOLLOWS

Mark: “Hello. I have a few minutes this morning to check out your issues.”

Me: “Oh, it’s gonna take a lot longer than that to fix all my issues.”

Mark: “I’ll take a look and then come back later. How does that sound?”

Me: “Come any time you like.”

After assessing the damage, Mark shows up later that day like a superhero and fixes my door!

Afterwards, I thank him profusely and ask tentatively:

NOT PARAPHRASING AT ALL

Me: “So how much is this gonna cost me?“

Mark: “Twenty-five.“

Me: “Twenty-five hundred?“

Mark: “No. Twenty-five dollars.“

Me: “I love you.”

I slip Mark a $5.00 tip to forget I said that.

I am deliriously happy. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs, and getting just a slap on the wrist feels like redemption. Then I spot a thing I have been avoiding seeing out of the corner of my eye while driving in the parking lot of my super grocery store chain.

Me: “No NO NONONONONO!”

After conversations with my car insurance and Safe-Lite Glass Replacement they have the same response to warranty/coverage:

“Not It!”

**SIGH**

I decide to forgo fixing the window for now. We’ll see how long it lasts through the winter.

As I contemplate the bleak holidays ahead, I consider canceling my son’s camp weekend in January 2026.

And that’s when the email arrives from the camp Indian Trails, saying.

“Your son has been awarded a scholarship for the balance of your camper’s weekend!”

So here is Lesson Number Two, just in time for the Thanksgiving Holiday.

BE THANKFUL FOR THE GIFTS YOU ARE GIVEN–BE THEY SMALL OR LARGE. THEY MAKE THE DIFFERENCE WHEN TIMES GET HARD!

Lesson the First

Crisis DuJour, From My Brain to Yours, StayHomeStaySafe, Universal Coverage - In a Bad Way, , ,

I am summarizing a recent experience into a helpful life lesson, I feel someone should learn from my mistakes. You’re welcome.

*

Sept 6 – Itchy inception. Yard work and two red dots on shins convince me I have mosquito bites. But the new plants are planted. Hurray!

Sept 7 – Wake up itching–more spots on legs. Convinced I have bedbugs, I spend the next two days packing every damn thing in my bedroom. It’s a lot. Bags everywhere. I haul boxes to the basement. Wash everything in hot water. Bake it at 500° until smoking.

Sept. 10 – By Wednesday, I have more bites than I can count – frantic itching everywhere. I see the VA doctor for annual physical – I mention the bedbugs and show her the numerous bites. Her response (from the doorway): “I don’t think it’s bedbugs. I’m writing you a prescription.”

NOTE: I do not ask her what she thinks it is. This is lesson the first. ALWAYS ASK FOLLOW UP QUESTIONS!

I go home with Permethrin cream. I slather myself and hope for it to work regardless. I have covered all mattresses in the home with bedbug proof materials, the couch has a nice new plastic sheeting. I have sprayed likely surfaces with over-the-counter bedbug napalm. I dream of chemical Armageddon raining down on the small blood sucking creatures.

Sept. 11 – Bites have spread up my neck and all over my face. Even my eyelids are puffy and sore. I’m beginning to doubt I have bedbugs. But I call an exterminator/inspector and schedule an appointment.

Sept. 12 – Inspector arrives–barely in his twenties. He examines my whole bedroom, common area, and basement. Conclusion: “You don’t have bedbugs. That’ll be $175.00.”

Now realize, based on a Google search of my medication, I truly have scabies. And that Alexei has not been treated. Frantically call his doctor’s office for an Rx for the kid.

Sept. 13. – Saturday – I realize that though I have boxed everything in my bedroom and changed sheets like a germaphobe with OCD every single day–I forgot to clean my new CPaP headgear, mask and my keychain around my neck and realize I have likely reinfected myself. I go to an urgent care to get a new RX for me. (One tube is not enough for two treatments, fyi.)

Both Alexei and I treat ourselves that evening–going to sleep wearing the white, medical-grade insecticide. We can shower when we wake.

Sept. 14 to 19 – I go nowhere–other than slowly out of my mind. I send messages to my doctor’s office that get crazier by the day. My son, thankfully, has his father’s constitution. He does not exhibit any sign of infection and goes to school. I stay home and scratch and scratch and scratch.

Sept. 20 – Second treatment of Permethrin. I am convinced this cream is a panacea and that I will never see the end of these little )⚡︎&@%$! burrowing blood suckers.

Sept. 21-22 – I swear I am never going out in public again. I break up with the massage chair at the mall (one of several possible culprits for infection based on the timeline.) I stand everywhere I go, just in case. I am a complete nutbar even though I’m supposedly cured.

Sept. 23 Starting to feel better. The doctor’s office calls me in to double check and to give me flu shot. I get a clean bill of health.

After this ghastly period, you would think my bad luck was used up for the year. You would be wrong. But I’ll save that tale for another post. This was traumatic enough.

Now I dare you to go sit in public, especially at doctor offices, and not wonder who was sitting in it just moments before? And does it feel like something is crawling under your skin? It just might be!

Fun Fact: Scabies can live on surfaces for up to two to three days.

Fun Fact #2: The first time you get scabies, you might not have a reaction right away. According to Google:

“First-time infections cause itching and rash in 2-6 weeks, while a second infection triggers symptoms in just 1-4 days because the immune system has already been sensitized.”

This was my second bout. And hopefully, my last.

Here’s a picture of me at my maddest, baddest, and most dangerous to know.

Pants on Fire…

Challenge Accepted, Highly Flammable, Rambling Rose, , , ,

I did a thing yesterday. I made a fun-fun outfit for my kid for school. No one made me. I did this on purpose. And I only set off the fire alarms once…

*****

Spirit Week has some fun options but I get absolutely fixated on an idea for Monday’s Fleece or Flannel Day. I order some things from Amazon before I quit my free month of Prime. (Take that, Jeff B.!)

I cobble together a complete outfit, but his pants have a problem. They are too comfortable. Too easy-to-wear for public venues. So…beltloops are the answer.

Last night I learned the truth the universe has hidden from me–beltloops are the devil’s accessory. I have also learned that I will pay anyone whatever they ask to never have to add beltloops again! (I paid someone $1250 to have a tree removed last week that I swear took less time that it took me to make these damned loops from hell.)

I begin my project by waiting until the absolute last minute to start it.

[Sidebar: I have my first ADHD testing tomorrow; I wonder what I will learn?]

First up…I have to find my supplies that were hidden during a recent curse/plague/scourge that required stuffing nearly all of my house in garbage bags. Be grateful you are only hearing about pants today.

I ask the internet how to make beltloops. It is only so helpful.

I hunt, I search, I eventually find. I snip. I cut. I iron. (Setting off the fire alarm in the process.) I pin. I poke myself about eleventy-billion times. Ow.

I ask my internet what the hell this thing is on my sewing machine? The internet suggested I go find a manual and look it up myself. Sigh.

Footer Tension Mechanism or Button-Hole Related – The Internet Wasn’t Sure Which.

I only sew only one of the things on the wrong way…and I had a seam ripper to pull it apart and sew it back on correctly. I call that a victory.

It takes me about 5 hours to put 8 beltloops of questionable construction in place.

The next morning, I dress the boy in all-over orange and greyish black flannel plaid with orange argyle socks.

You can’t even see the beltloops in place. But trust me, they are there! And I am very proud that this day is over.

Now to find something Black and Orange for tomorrow! What a shame he can’t wear this two days in a row!

Happy Fireworks, Everybody

Highly Flammable, Rambling Rose, This Just In!, , , ,

As I sit in my chair facing out into my garden watching the ever darkening evening approach, the flash and bang of incendiary devices commences. I am reminded.

Oh, right. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July!

This means, I am currently bombarded by amateur firecracker smiths’ efforts to celebrate early—no doubt drunk on freedom or something wetter sold in cardboard cases at every gas station in the fifty states.

Hang on…Firecracker Smith? Is that the right title? What is the term for someone who professionally handles fireworks? Checks the internet…ah yes, a pyrotechnician! At least, that is what their lawyer will assert should they burn down any important buildings.

Sidebar: someone who unprofessionally sets off fireworks is typically called “Lefty” or “That crazy bastard” by their neighbors.

I am thinking of Fourth of Julys past. I discuss this with my mother-in-law— specifically the reason why we stopped going to the pancake breakfast hosted on behalf of veterans in Grandville, Michigan. I’m surprised she’s forgotten.

Me: “Don’t you remember, Laura? That first year we moved here, your darling grandson overturned his trike (which weighed over 100 pounds—the bike, I mean, but probably the kid did too) and smashed his face into the concrete requiring a trip to the emergency room because he bit through his lip!”

MIL: “Oh. That’s right. That was an awful day!” Laura replies.

Since then, we’ve managed tamer 4ths, including an unforgettable cruise on the S.S. Badger many years ago, but I’ve never entirely trusted the holiday either. (Personally, I believe the Fourth of July was invented to test parents’ patience and their ability to keep their children alive.)

The weather we are having lately tips into the 90’s. It is 10 P.M. here and it is still 86° outside. That is now considered a ‘cool’ temperature.

If you are in Arizona, you are no doubt laughing your proverbial derrieres off. For you, it doesn’t really start to get hot until there are three digits beside that degree symbol. (At that point, the little round circle is saying it is hot enough to boil an egg.) I am never going to move to Arizona. I am too white to survive the melanomas that would spontaneously erupt every time I stepped outdoors.

I would much rather stay home, in air conditioning, and read or work on a jigsaw puzzle. Instead, I will walk with my son along the Buck Creek Trail as we have in years past and set up our blanket to lie down and watch the stars be put to shame by flashier if shorter-lived displays. I will suffer the loud concussive booms of the many firework enthusiasts—those with all their fingers and those who can no longer count to ten without taking their shoes off—and appreciate that my son still enjoys this journey with his mom.

And then I will gratefully haul my child homeward, where ice cream awaits to celebrate surviving the heat of the day.

I wish you much joy on your Fourth of July and we will hope that you can count your gratitude on all ten of your fingers come Monday!

Weaponized Plaid

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To survive winter in the northern climes takes a certain kind of person.

A person who has gumption or the savvy to survive the extremes of cold, sleet, and never-ending snow.

Why am I writing about this on a day where the temperature hit the 60s in March for the first time in my memory? Blame it on the heat stroke of not knowing how to dress when the calendar calls for layers—preferably in plaid.

*

Plaid is the survivalist go-to weather fabric of choice. (This fact totally made up in my head.) But I think there is truth in this fiction.

We Midwesterners have adopted the Absolute Zero Protocol which states that winter can only be survived by the immediate application of weaponized plaid!

[Or possibly by drinking Absolut or Strong Zero.]

During particularly bleak winters, people can become creative about their plaid-related activities.

At an undisclosed location in the U.P. (Upper Peninsula to you non-Michigan folks) there is an unusual holiday: PLAIDURDAY. It is celebrated the first Friday in October and is an excuse to go out in all your plaid attire and do good works or just celebrate the joy of the multi-colored woven wonder that is plaid! Check out the events page on Facebook: Plaidurday.

There is also a similar celebration a little closer to home in Cedar Springs, MI. The Red Flannel Festival celebrated its 85th year in 2024 and shows no signs of stopping. Much like the snow we enjoy every year. We can overlook that the gathering isn’t technically one of plaid aficionados, because enough red plaid is worn to make it a plaid-happy event nonetheless.

You might argue that both of these events precede the actual arrival of snow to the state. This is true. But, I would argue, we need to build up our reserves of amusement so that we can survive the coming snow. Which brings me to a lovely find.

I was trying to find a nice picture of a man in a kilt shoveling snow—preferably with a gaggle of woman holding up signs giving Olympic scores for form in a stiff wind—when I saw this.

[2025 Update: the original link stopped working and some new upgrade is messing with the embed function. Enjoy this saucy photo instead.]

Apparently there are several variations of these kilted cheesecake calendars. But it was the comments I found under one version that really had me giggling:

Peter gave 1.0 out of 5 stars  saying: Not a real calendar

Reviewed in the United States on January 19, 2025

“This doesn’t open like a normal calendar but like a book. Useless. Same guy on multiple pages…”

Poor Peter…was he actually hoping the hunky slab o’ Scotsman pin-up had a functional purpose?

Holly gave 3.0 out of 5 stars exclaimed:  Small sized calendar – Men in Kilts

Reviewed in Canada on January 12, 2025

“It was a gift, but recipient was disappointed that it was a small sized calendar.”

Apparently, even with calendars, size matters.

With a little precaution, you too can survive several months of inhospitable, sleet-filled, icy coated weather that closes school faster than you can say “Snow Day!”

However you handle the madness that is yet one more snowfall or even an unseasonably warm spell in March, please celebrate responsibly.

And just remember, when in doubt, pile on another layer of plaid and hope that spring is around the corner.

Borrowed from Gordon Brandie in hopes he can forgive his stown SnowLad!

A Killer Promotion

If you stop by for a visit this week and think, “Ugh. What is that stench? It smells like something died in here.”

You would be right.

And, for future reference, please bookmark this page in case the question of my sanity ever arises in court. I may need defense witnesses.

You can mark this Exhibit A.

* * * * *

The first Monday back to school after the holidays means that I am highly motivated to tackle a lot of undone, or never started, What Was I Thinking? projects.

I have a list.

…In my head.

None of them get tackled. Except one. The least necessary and at best, or maybe at worst, the creepiest example of how my mind works.

In an effort to recycle and save money, it seemed like a good idea to try and create my own bird feeder suet cakes. In my freezer are baggies upon baggies of saved skin. You know, just in case.

I thought, “Why not just grind up the skins leftover from chicken and turn them into bird feeder cakes?”

I’ll tell you why. Beyond the ethics of promoting bird feeder cannibalism, I mean.

If you dump a few months worth of skin into a blender and forget to add any liquid, you will wrap that rubbery flesh around the small blades that are the propellers at the base of your blender. Your blender will make a wheezing noise and you will then belatedly add liquid and create the most repulsive slurry of pulverized bird bits plus fat imaginable. Then, as you keep pressing the “Chop” and “Ice Crush” options alternately trying to free the blockage, you smell a rank, sickening odor emerge from the depths of hell. Smoke rises from the blender base. The scent of burnt plastic mixes with the souls of the damned. This noxious stench will fill your nostrils and your house for hours! You will move the blender base to the garage–this will have no effect on how your kitchen smells.

As you spoon up the slurry and mix it with melted fat and bird seed–and try not to vomit at the sight and sensation of skin slurry sticking to your fingers–you might try to imagine a product that might be capable of what you were asking the poor Oster blender to do.

Of note: the Oster people never promised its blender could dispose of a corpse using a ‘pulverize bone’ setting. No they did not. I’m sure that is spelled out somewhere in the fine print. Meanwhile, I am wrist deep in goo and regretting my A.D.D. impulse of the day. My mind wanders…

“I wonder,” my brain says to me, “if this is how serial killers end up using lye or bleach to dissolve bodies? Or, maybe there is a blender out there that does the job…just nobody puts that on the label?”

Can you just imagine someone confessing to a bunch of homicides and then offering to provide a testimonial for Ginsu knives because of the extraordinary sharpness in handling those pesky joint ligaments? Or how about a cleaning product that does double duty–disappearing a corpse or cleaning up a crime scene…before the police get to it? Even if it does a fantastic job for the murderer–who would buy a product hawked by a killer?

Buy OJ Simpson branded gloves–They Never Fit and Always Acquit!

There is probably a good reason market research rarely quotes serial killers’ opinions of their products. Maybe it’s blocked by trademarked copyright? Or maybe it’s that pesky rule preventing convicted criminals from profiting from their crimes? Only their lawyers know for sure.

If there is a super-powered Bone-Breaker 10,000 body crunching, wonder blender out there, the deranged killers are taking that secret to the grave…where body parts are left to feed wildlife the way nature intended.

Apparently, I should have used my Cuisinart.

Of note, this is the second blender I have killed doing something idiotic it wasn’t intended for. I can’t recall offhand how my previous blender met the appliance grim reaper, but I’m sure no one in their right mind expects modern appliances to double as tools of body dismemberment. It so lacks the personal touch.

…..

You Read This Far Bonus:

The A.I. Image maker wouldn’t touch the topic “Serial Killer Putting Livers Into a Blender.” Even the A.I. wouldn’t touch this subject. If you read this far, what does that say about you?

From Santa, With Love

Crisis DuJour, Family, Parenting Heart Palpitations, Photographic Memories, Self-flagellation, , , , , , , , ,

To all the parents who stayed up late wrapping presents, I salute you!

Continue reading From Santa, With Love →

Happy Deathmas

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In conversation with my mother recently, the subject of what she would like for Christmas this year came up. Thus begins the weirdest new way to celebrate the season.

*****

Trigger Warning: If you have recently lost a loved one and are grieving, I am sorry for your loss. However, this post is very much not intended for you. Unless you need someone to hate. Please, grieve responsibly. Thank you.

“Hey, Mom! Would you like a gift card to Meijer or just some cold hard cash you can use anywhere?” (I’m all about the sentiment of the holiday, dontcha know.)

“Actually, I need a DNR sign for my house. In case I die, I don’t want anybody trying to resuscitate me. It happened to the neighbor and afterward, she just didn’t come back the same.”

“Uh…well what if you fall and die when you aren’t at home? Wouldn’t a bracelet or something on you be better?”

[It only occurs to me later that a tattoo across the forehead would be exceptionally noticeable.]

“I’m already wearing my fall alert monitor. But, since I don’t wear it outside the house, I suppose I could do that.”

From mom’s tone, I can tell she’s still thinking of a sign for her door–or maybe a doormat? Something that reads “Grim Reaper Welcome?”

So many options, but I found this beauty on Zazzle!

It turns out there is a wide variety of I HEART DEATH related merchandise available after Halloween at murderously slashed prices. Though some are totally worth paying an exorbitant price for.

I was tempted by this one:

SIMPLY TASTEFUL, THAT IS SO MOM! WonderPrint

Be warned, the two installments of just $22.49 each is buying you a very tiny invitation to death. The above purchase size buys you 40 cm x 60 cm. Which, in American, is about the size of a large mailer envelope.

And then, because I was curious, I looked on Amazon and lo and behold, found this doormat:

Trust Amazon to have something made to order for every occasion.

Immediately after pulling up this Amazon find, the consumer questions popped up making me laugh despite the grim implications.

“Does it’s design prevent slipping?”

Imagine a product that ensures it becomes immediately useful?

While we talk, I am searching Amazon for something I can get Mom that speaks to the heart of our conversation without being utterly like buying a toe tag in anticipation.

And then I find this on Amazon:

A gift from the well-intentioned if slightly macabre at heart.

After I send a link and we have a short conversation, we agree. It’s perfect!

In finality, however you celebrate the season, remember, it might be your last. So celebrate it like you really mean it. And make sure your loved ones know you are thinking of them!

And remember, like the song says:

YOU BETTER WATCH OUT!

YOU BETTER NOT CRY

YOU BETTER NOT POUT!

I’M TELLING YOU WHY!

REAPER CLAUS IS COMING FOR YOU!

Stolen with much difficulty from: Coins and More!

Merry Deathmas Everybody!

YOU’VE READ THIS FAR BONUS:

It is somewhat alarming how many death related things popped up in my search.

Deathmas is real!

I found Deathmas cookies:

Not Just for Halloween Anymore! Credit: Semi-Sweet

And Much Beloved Christmas Stories Perverted for the Goth Child in all of us:

T’WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE DEATHMAS…

Amazon is all about self-affirmation of people’s right to approach death with the blackest of humor possible.

I call this find Death Granny Epiphanies:

Perhaps this subject matter is too bleak, or in poor taste, for you to find this funny. That’s okay. Maybe you will be reassured that, no matter how hard I tried to find a Death Carol, I failed to locate “Have Yourself a Merry Little Deathmas!” And perhaps that is the happiest news of the day.

Then again, I did find this video:

For which you can be eternally grateful! You’re welcome.

And, I’m sorry.