It’s Like Someone Took Desperate Housewives and Silence of the Lambs and Shoved Them Into My Autobiograpy
With all of the crime shows that I watch and the homicide novels I read and the fact that I’ve twice been the victim of aggravated assaults, it’s pretty amazing that I do not obsess all of the time about serial killers. The only time I am somewhat concerned about them is when I am in my car alone and I am singing with the radio at the top of my lungs. Even then, I am torn between worrying about the guy laying in wait in the trunk of my car who may have just discovered that he has a bigger motivation to slit my throat than he thought and the guy in the car next to me at the stop light who never pondered serial killing until he heard me belting out, “Hey Soul Sister.”
But those moments are rare – maybe once a week.
No, I spend far more time worried about the aftermath of being serially killed. This puzzles me because I will be dead and presumably will have less anxiety at that point. Nevertheless, I am increasingly fearful of what people will think of me when I am dead. Specifically, I am tormented by thoughts of what they will judge to be my less-than-stellar housekeeping skills.
I’m pretty sure I’ve written about this before – which only goes to show how much it bothers me.
For some reason, this affliction seems to have worsened during the summer – maybe because I have a bit too much time on my hands. I look in a closet, and am suddenly acutely aware that there are too many clothes in it, that if anyone else should happen to see that I still own 3 bridesmaid dresses that I wore twenty years ago they will be incredibly astonished at the levels that my hoarding reached and how could they have never suspected that I was so deeply disturbed?
Yesterday, I noticed the light switch in my bathroom had accumulated about 5 years of dust on the top rim and nearly had a panic attack while I tried to finish up my business so I could get to some cleaning supplies and rectify the situation before I die.
The funny thing is that you would walk into my house and never think to yourself, “This is someone who is obsessed with cleaning her house.” That is because I am very self-aware, and I realize that if I give in to this craziness I will lose my mind completely and become like that lady on Desperate Housewives who may or may not have become a serial killer herself (I’m not sure because I stopped watching it after the 2nd season). So, I allow myself to freak out for about 20 minutes a day and then I collapse in exhaustion on the couch and force myself to read.
Another serial killer book.
That describes the abode of the victim in great detail.
Detail that I hope no one will ever feel the need to go into when I am serially killed.
This exchange happened between my sister, Crash, and me a few days ago. You see, about 20,000 years ago I did what I thought was a really nice thing and surprised my sister in North Carolina for her birthday. Her birthday usually coincides with my Spring Break, so I figured I would give her the best gift of all – me. She seemed quite happy about it at the time, but little did I know that I was setting her up for an annual hopefulness that seems to have gradually turned into full-blown paranoia. Every year at this time, she asks if I’m going to surprise her again. And, of course I say “no” because, even if I was, I’m certainly not going to tell her. This year, as you can tell, the hopefulness has turned into fear, and I’m trying not to take it personally.
I mean we all know the difference between “half-ass” cleaning and the cleaning you do when you are afraid you are going to get murdered by a serial killer and your home is going to be featured on C.S.I. But my sister should know by now that I would be perfectly satisfied with no-ass cleaning because that’s exactly the kind of house I live in on a regular basis.
The other day, there was a story in the news about a woman who got injured because her friend decided to keep his ammunition in his oven, and she decided to preheat it to make some waffles. Now, there are a few things wrong about this story, but my biggest question is: why do you need to pre-heat the oven to make waffles? I mean, I’m not a kitchen person, but I’m pretty sure you don’t bake waffles.
You might ask what that all has to do with this post, but I think that you will agree with me that keeping your bullets in the oven is a perfect example of, half-ass, “Oh crap, I have a visitor, what am I going to do with this armful of armament, I know, I’ll put it in the oven” kind of cleaning. Never predicting that, when you left the room to go take a whiz, your neighbor would suddenly take it upon herself to make some kind of mutant form of waffles that must be put in the oven instead of in the waffle iron that was sitting on your counter.
What I’m getting at, Crash, is you can totally put your ammunition in the oven if you want. Because: A.) I don’t cook, so I think we are all safe on that account, 2.) I don’t clean, so I’m never going to find it in there, and III.) I’m not coming to visit this week, so I really don’t care where you decide to store your ammo.
Although I do feel obligated to mention, Sis, that someone who earned the nickname “Crash” because of her less than graceful performances in the past, should probably not be around live ammunition on a regular basis.
Oh, and I am coming to visit. No, I’m not. Yes, I am. No, I’m not…
Don’t you love having a sister? Happy Birthday.