Category Archives: This Just In!

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!

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!

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?

Happy Deathmas

Charnelly Black Humor, Click Bait, Family, Family Ties, From My Brain to Yours, Heartbreak, This Just In!, , , ,

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.

Dichotomy Conundrum

Friends, From My Brain to Yours, Thinks I Like, This Just In!, Writing, ,

I attended a writer’s workshop this weekend and I was asked to review aspects about the characters I like best and what about them appeals to me. The workshop director put it much more eloquently giving us a list of concepts to consider when deciding what fictional person appeals to us most. Allow me to publish that list here:

From the GreenStudy Writer’s Workshop:

What kind of arcs appeal to you?

Think about your favorite characters?

Why do you think that appeals to you?

How does it reflect your values?

Because this practice is a time-sensitive exercise, we have between five and ten minutes to answer what turned out to be a fairly philosophical and self-revelatory question for me. I could try to trim and polish my deduction into an erudite, well crafted blog post. But, I like the immediacy of having a thought and putting it out into the world. (I blame social media.) Also, my NaNoWriMo Novel awaits some attention. So, instead, here is my raw, unfiltered assessment of what I look for in a character/arc and why it appeals:

MY DICHOTOMOUS REVELATION

I like happily ever after stories. Where good triumphs over evil. But I also like more nuanced characters—ones who can laugh at their own failures but also learn from their strengths/faults. Characters who are underdogs—but not necessarily bullied or too weird/outside the mainstream. Because I am weird and always have been to most people. I think these characters appeal because I would like to be more brave. I would like to be better—without having to do the hard work to make it happen. I wish I would do the challenging thing and stand up for my beliefs. To confront others when I believe they are in the wrong. But, I am too much a people pleaser and I avoid conflict by nature. I have loved legal dramas as a way to step-by-step prove who is the bad guy and, by default, who is the good guy. But my inner cynic says, ‘there are no real good guys’ and ‘even if there are, they are corruptible or fallible or mortal and the bad guys win in reality more often than the good guys do!  

I would like reality to be as happy as the endings I read. But I am disappointed by a doubt of most stories that end that way. I am conflicted by the pat, too-easy answer. And yet, I crave it. I probably should just come to terms with this dichotomy before my literary aspirations throttle me. Or prove me right and eventually I become an irresolute cynic with no hope for humanity.

So, there you have it. I am at heart–split in two. I am a hopeful cynic; I am a discouraged dreamer. I want better things I don’t believe will ever happen or that I deserve. This extends to my writing. When I write, I do it with the hope that it is better than I think it is, and not nearly as bad as it likely really is to anyone with talent and taste.

And yet…I like what I write. Perhaps that is the core of a writer. We have to have faith in our vision–or that vision gets squashed before it can blossom.

So, if you too have an imaginary world you would like to see come true (e.g. when the world around you feels like it has fallen into a dystopian hellscape) then join me in a writer’s workshop–where we gnash furiously over our feelings; cutting our literary teeth on a digital landscape that spans continents if not dimensions.* There is a joy in sharing a work in progress with fellow writers who can sympathize and help you expand your imaginary world–as well as sharpen your story telling skills in a safe space.

[*Please note, that Michelle at the GreenStudy has absolutely nothing to do with my insistence on massacring metaphors. In fact, she has thoroughly and gently explained to me that just because I enjoy a certain amount of bludgeoned similes and truly love mangling overused analogies doesn’t mean anyone else does!]

So, know this, if you insist on keeping your writing full of flaws, untouched, unvarnished, and unread–then this might not be the right place for you! Over the many sessions I have attended, I have learned to love my writing and even embrace–gasp–editing while working on my stories. I’ve learned that I can write an outline before I begin to put that story down on digital paper–so to speak. I also appreciate the polish gently provided by having outside expertise–and a core of beta readers–willing to review my work and help by nudging me away from my admittedly bad purple prose habits and giving me directions toward brighter, better writing.

And, lastly, I truly enjoy meeting and talking with other writers at my level. All writers have to start somewhere; it helps when you can share your doubts and struggles with someone who knows what it feels like. I love the friendships I’ve formed almost as much as the imaginary worlds I people with heroes and villains who just need to find their happy endings–or overdue justice served cold, hard, and epically karmic! Just the way it should be in a perfect world.

Check out The Green Study where workshops help writers make the world a better place–at least, on paper.

Passive Aggressive Cookies for Open Door Policies.

Crisis DuJour, Parenting Heart Palpitations, This Just In!, Welcome To Autismland: Population YOU!, , , , , , , , ,

I am baking cookies. The smell of freshly ground cardamom is overpowering at first, but then melds with the warmth and smells of baking in the oven.

I am an American and I do not possess a good sense of what a 3 mm thickness looks like, nor do I have a ruler, so I have to open and shut the oven door repeatedly trying to figure how long it will be before my already brown cookies are ‘browned’ at the edges. I guess wrong with the first batch, so after figuring out they need at least 15 minutes, I pop that batch in again until I fear burning the pistachios.

“Pistachios?” You might ask.

“Yes,” I say, “Because of my son.”

“Oh, he likes them then?” You presume.

“No. He doesn’t. These cookies are for me. He doesn’t get any!”

I stand in my kitchen guarding both the baking cookies and my son from accessing my bedroom.

I currently have a most reluctant and unexpected open door policy.

Answering the question: What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?

I’m am very good at holding onto my mad. This happened yesterday and in response, I took all of his stuffies until the door is fixed. I made him write sentences based on how much the guy estimated it would cost to fix the door jam. (Hint it took about 8 pages of tiny print to write them all.) And today he’s cleaned and vacuumed most of the house and swept half the garage.

He doesn’t get any trips or treats until the door is fixed. Subsequently, I get to listen to a litany of requests to “Fix door.”

He’s even insisting on an exact time of repair.

“10 a.m. tomorrow, fix door.” He is standing next to me as I type this.

This is the parenting paradox. Anything you do to “punish” a child’s misbehavior rebounds on you. He can’t go on trips to Burger King–so I can’t go there either. He isn’t allowed to get the highly desired items from my room, so I have to guard him at all times.

It’s going to be a very annoying end to our summer.

At least I have cookies!