That’s So Craven

There are a couple of irrational things I think about on a regular basis. Bedtime, for one. And NOT because my plush queen sized bed is uncomfortable or my thread count is too low. Rather, it’s because I think (honest) I am more vulnerable to murderers, monsters and bogeymen if I don’t have a sheet and/or duvet on top of me. I also can NOT sleep with an arm hanging out over the side of the bed. Why in the world would you willingly try to bait the murderer who lives under your bed and who feeds on phalanges by dangling them enticingly over the side? You WOULDN’T. Not if you’re me. I swear, I really do these things, I don’t kid about monsters who want to kill me.

The other irrational thing I worry about is garbage disposals. Great for getting rid of your eggshells and orange peels, yes. Also great for chewing up your hand because you reached in to get a fork that fell in there after a long night of entertaining Ted and Francine Q. Neighbors. That was the moment when Larry Q. Husband flicked what he thought was the light switch but no, it was the disposal switch and now all that’s left is a gnarly stump of bad memories and I have to wear my antique engagement ring on a chain around my neck now.

Note to my readers: I don’t have a garbage disposal, but whenever I am near one, this is what I think about and my heart skips a few beats imagining the hook they will have to fit me with after what will come to be known as “when Ted and Francine came over for tapas”. Poor Liz. Such a beautiful hand…until Ted and Francine came over for tapas.

I know that the bedtime thing is probably more of a Freddy/Jason type of nightmare born out of seeing one too many naughty camp couselors get kebabed on a spike between the top and bottom bunk. The garbage disposal though, I’m not so sure of. Probably I got that from Scream – after all, when you can get killed by an automatic garage door opener, anything is fair game. So for me, the disposal represents my own little Wes Craven tale of what happens when a member of the upper middle class accidentally taps the bumper the wrong chemically imbalanced member of their housing development in the Whole Foods parking lot. And the trailer for it will include a hippie in a backless shirt who lives on the outskirts of town saying to the camera “Looks like someone shoulda started a compost heap”.

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