Sarandipity? Not.

I know you are going to find this hard to believe, but there is one area of domesticity which I have not yet mastered.  Nor will I ever.

The fine art of Saran Wrap.

Don't believe me?  

Well, look at my war wounds!  And all I was trying to do was put away the damn Tin Foil!

At the risk of appearing cynical, I believe that stinkin' Saran Wrap did it on purpose.  Intentionally bit my fingers.  Tried to saw them off at the knuckles.

And forgive me for mentioning the obvious, but losing my fingers above the knuckles would completely ruin my life as a blogger.  How could I type?   I would be permanently disabled.  And disfigured.

I know what you're thinking. 

Yes, I need a manicure. 

But you're probably also thinking the it was my own fault.  

You couldn't be more wrong.  The box has a 14 inch scalpel hanging off the side of it. 

(A 14-inch dagger which I've never in my entire life been able to use to cut a piece of Saran Wrap.)

Instead I end up with a jagged piece of plastic tangled up in itself.  

The rest of the triangle has been absorbed into the plastic roll in the box, impossible to find without a magnifying glass and a 5 million candlepower spotlight.

I think I may need stitches. 

I cannot believe that a household product like Saran Wrap has a such a menacing machete hanging off the side of it.   Just waiting to attack  an innocent Domestic Goddess such as myself.

What if this gets infected?  Or if I have scars?

Plastic surgery is expensive, from what I understand.  Maybe I need a lawyer.  One from a billboard.  I think they are the best.

Johnson and Johnson should have warned me of the inherent risks associated with the Saran Wrap box.  It should have come with a warning label.

They should put a warning label on the box so bloggers like myself aren't permanently disfigured from the skewer on the side of the box (like I have been).
 
The warning label could go right above the dagger that's attached to the box.

Crap.

Caution: Cutting edge is sharp.  Avoid contact.

Damn lawyers think of everything.  

It's right next to the warning; do not use this product in cribs, beds, carriages or playpens. 

Sucking Wax

It's not often that I get excited about vacuuming.  

True, I have a great affinity for my Kirby, but this is quite different.  

It's EarWax vacuuming.

My sister Linda e-mailed me about the WaxVac.  She knew I'd be amazed by this new product that "gently draws dirt particles and moisture out quickly and safely".   

She was so right!

As I looked over the web site, my ears began to itch.  I could just feel the dirt particles and moisture that needed to be drawn out.

There was no way I could wait 6 weeks for delivery.  And according to the www.waxvac.com, "doctors everywhere warn against cotton swabs."

That made my ears itch even more. 

I had to make the itching stop. 

Then I had my first scathingly brilliant idea.  I could make my own, admittedly lower tech version of the WaxVac based on another amazing product that I have test driven. 

Who can forget the Nosefrida Snot Sucker?  

Imagine the Earfrida, which would work similarly to the Nosefrida.  You would simply insert the Earfrida into your ear and the other end into your mouth.  Then you would gently suck the ear gunk out of your ear.

(Please don't tell the Nosefrida people about my idea or they'll steal it.)

As you know, I am the proud owner of my very own Nosefrida Snot Sucker (http://notesfromanerdling.blogspot.com/2011/06/stimulating-snot.html).   Alas, it is with great sadness that I report that I have lost it.

I thought it was in my blog bag but it Snot. 

Sorry, I couldn't resist.

I considered purchasing another Nosefrida so I could test drive my Earfrida, but then I had scathingly brilliant idea #2. 

I made my own Nerdling Earfrida out of my novelty straw glasses!  Not only does my Nerdling Earfrida work like a charm, it's fun to use!

It's a barrel of laughs!  

In fact, you can entertain your guests and clean your ears at the same time with the Nerdling Earfrida.  And now that I think of it, you could clean your guests' ears while you're at it.

They don't call me a stinkin' marketing genius for nothing!

Nobody Dyed

I wouldn't say I was devastated.

I mean, nobody died.

Of course my beautiful cream colored shirt from Arden B that I love, love, love did not exactly survive intact.  Neither did 2 of my other white shirts. 

It was a laundry debacle.  My shirts fell victim to a purple tie-died dress that I bought from a vendor on a beach in St. Thomas. A dress that had apparently been tie-died  using a cross between blueberries, red wine and grape molasses. 

I suppose I should be happy that I have a husband who does all the laundry.  

A husband who has been doing laundry for decades.  Who learned 25 years ago that you should never mix colors.  Who should never have made such a rookie mistake costing me my beautiful cream colored shirt from Arden B that I loved nearly more than life itself.

I soaked the 3 shirts in OxiClean for 12 hours.  They faded from pink to a pale purple. 

A very ugly pale purple.

Divorce was an option, but Dave and I have been married for over 25 years.  I considered the children.  And Kevin.  What kind of example would we be setting if we didn't at least try to work things out?

Marriage counseling was definitely in order.  So I made a Rorschach Inkblot Test t-shirt out of one of the ruined shirts.

For those of you not familiar with the Rorschach Inkblot Test, it is a psychological test used to examine a person's emotional functioning, often employed to detect underlying thought disorder.

I decided to psychoanalyze Dave to determine the underlying reason for his decision to wash my 3 white shirts in warm water with a purple tie-died dress from St. Thomas. 

I know what you're thinking.  Using my formerly white shirt rather than a piece of paper for my Rorschach Inkblot Test is a bit passive aggressive.  You're wrong!  I simply could not find a suitable piece of paper, and my shirt was handy. 

I'm pleased to report a happy ending.  Our marriage has been saved.

It was truly a win-win situation.  I got a spiffy new shirt and Dave got to stare at my chest while I psychoanalyzed him.  

I concluded that it was not intentional.  It was just a senior moment.  (He is getting up there in age, you know.)

But just in case, I put the washing instructions on the back of my new purple Rorschach Inkblot Test t-shirt.

He can even read them without his reading glasses.

The Designer Billed Dog

Over the past few years the Japan Trend Shop has been my “go-to” web site for cutting edge beauty aids.   And I have benefited greatly.

The Beauty Nose Butterfly Clip has firmed and tightened my nose, creating my perfect proboscis profile.  

 Then there's the Popeka Anti-Aging Mouthpiece.  My cheeks and jaws now look 15 years younger as a result of blowing into the magical mouthpiece.

And we cannot forget the Beauty Voice Trainer. Thanks to that miraculous device, I now sound exactly like Celine Deon or Whitney Houston (depending on which song I’m singing). 

So you can imagine my excitement when I noticed that the Japan Trend Shop has a new product for dogs. 

Kevin wasn't quite as happy. 

"Kevin, look what I found on the Japan Trend Shop web site!" I said enthusiastically. "The Oppo Dog Muzzle Quack Duck Bill Designer Pet Protection!" 

I pointed the I-Pad in Kevin’s direction. 

He began to slink away. 

I read Kevin the product description: 

"It might well often be compulsory for your pooch to wear a muzzle when out and about, but that doesn't mean it needs to be boring! Bright, fun and with a touch of the bizarre, these Oppo Dog Muzzles will transform your familiar canine friend into a semi-duck, designer "billed" dog."

I got goosebumps.  Imagine being able to transform my canine friend into a semi-duck!  A designer "billed" dog. 

But it was $44, a bit out of my price range. 

"Come on Kevin! Let's go to the Dollar Store!" 

It didn't long to find what I needed to make my own Nerdling Version of the The Oppo Dog Muzzle Quack Duck Bill Designer Pet Protection:  one sparkly yellow foam visor and some scissors.

 

It was simple to make.  And Kevin looked so dapper in his new bill.  But there was something missing.  He needed something else to complete his look.  

Then it struck me (no pun intended).  Kevin needed his Thunderjacket.

Kevin says he wants his dignity back. 

I have no idea what he's talking about.

Hash Brown Disasterole

I was assigned the Hash Brown Casserole.

Because it was something that I couldn’t mess up. 

It was Christmas morning in Wisconsin.  We were staying at my in-law’s for the holidays.  I was in the kitchen preparing my dish to bring to the Walt Family Pot-Luck Holiday Dinner. 

I’ll be the first to admit that my reputation for cooking was not exactly stellar.  (This was several years prior to my Summa Cum Laude graduation from Michael’s Cake Decorating class.) 

At any rate, the Hash Brown Casserole was simple to make.  A safe bet.  All I had to do was mix together 3 bags of hash browns, a couple cans of soup, sour cream and some grated cheese.  Simple.

I opened the 1st bag, emptied it into the bowl and dropped the bag into the trash.  I opened the 2nd bag, emptied it into the bowl and dropped the bag into the trash.  I opened the 3rd bag, emptied it into the trash and dropped the bag into the bowl.

Oops. 

I looked at the hash browns in the trash can.  Crap!

 (Note this photo is a realistic reenactment of the incident.)

I decided not to panic.  Certainly Dave’s Mom must have an extra bag of hash browns in her freezer.  This was Wisconsin- the hash brown capital of the Midwest.

Or not.

OK.  Maybe if I cut back on the soup it would work.

Too late.  The soup was already in the bowl.

I could just run over to Pick ‘N Save and get another bag of hash browns.

Nope.  It was Christmas.  Everything was closed.   

I looked into the garbage can.  And I thought about the 5 second rule (make that 5 seconds in dog years).

Most of the hash browns were piled in the center of the trash can.  Just above the coffee grounds.  If I was very careful…

And with surgical precision I removed 98% of the hash browns, and placed them into the mixing bowl. The only evidence of my culinary disaster was a shadowy outline of hash brown flakes atop the coffee grounds.  I placed the third bag over top to further mask my malfeasance.

I decided to keep this little secret to myself.

It kind of reminded me of my infamous “fish cake”.  (http://notesfromanerdling.blogspot.com/2011/03/fish-lips.html)

The casserole was a huge hit.  In fact, Dave’s aunt asked me for the recipe.

“Oh, it’s simple,” I explained.  “All you need is a couple cans of soup, sour cream, cheese and 3 bags of hash browns."

“Well, actually, 2.98 bags will do in a pinch”.

Holy Shucks!

My friend Becca says "shucks" when she gets mad.

I'm more likely to say  "stinkin".  Or  "crap".  If I get really mad or frustrated, a "frick" may pass through my lips.

But I hardly ever drop the F-bomb.

Especially at a family gathering in front of my in-laws, nieces and nephews, and the neighborhood priest.

OK, I'm exaggerating.  The priest wasn't there. 

We were watching my Buffalo Bills play New England.  It was 1998.  Buffalo was ahead 21-17 with 11 seconds left in the game.  Drew Bledsoe faced a 4th and 9 on the Buffalo 37.  He passed it to some Patriot who was 1) out of bounds and 2) short of the first down. 

The ref came running from the end zone and was heard saying, "Just give it to them".   And they did.

I screamed, "No Firetruckin' Way!"

Except I left off the "iretr". 

The room went silent.  My mother-in-law did one of her famous "gasps" and looked at my father-in-law as if to say, "Look what David has brought into the family." 

I tried to compose myself.   

New England was now on the Buffalo 25 with just 6 seconds on the clock.  Bledsoe threw a Hail Mary...essentially a jump ball.. into the end zone.  Hands were everywhere and the pass was incomplete. 

Except the refs called pass interference against the Bills.  On a Hail Mary pass.

"Are you Firetrucking Kidding Me?"  I shouted (again, without the "iretr").  

The priest brought out the Holy Water.   (Well, if he had been there, he would have.)

Instead of apologizing to my in-laws for my lack of civility, I started screaming, "that was @%^#%^!   Did you see that *&a@*^$%$ call?" 

The clock ran out, but since you can't end a game with  a penalty, New England got a first down on the 1 yard line, and scored a touchdown to win the game. 

The firetrucking continued.  The priest began my exorcism.  (Again, he would have had he been there.)

I gradually realized that all the conversation in the room had stopped.  Everyone was looking at me.  

Somehow I managed to regain my sanity and rejoin the human race.

My brother Tom still talks about this game.  "It's the game that caused me to lose my mind," he recalls.

Yeah.  I can relate.

And in my defense, there are times in life when a simple "shucks" will suffice.

I think Tom would agree with me.  This was not such an instance.

Only a firetruck would do.

Remembering Nemo

I totally understand.

It was a horrendous accident.  A three-way collision with multiple fatalities. 

It's not unusual for roadside memorials to be set up near the scene of such accidents.   It's the right thing to do, to honor the victims. 

It's a nice thing to do for the surviving families, as well.  

Especially in cases involving enormous suffering and senseless death.

It helps with the grieving process.

Some people think it unreasonable that California animal activists want a roadside memorial to honor the 1,600 pounds of saltwater bass that died in the October 11 collision.   (On their way to the market.)  

According to Peta's request, the sign would remind drivers that fish value their lives and feel pain. 

That is so sad.  I never knew fish valued their lives.  That makes it even more tragic.

It must have been truly horrific for those poor saltwater bass.  One can only imagine the macabre scene following the collision. 

Not to mention the smell.