Just when I think my life is complete, when I fear life's rich tapestry has room for nary another thread in the woven wall-hanging of Val's existence...I discover THIS on my electric fireplace mantle:
Oh, yes. Lean in closer. You'll not catch fire. I carried my cranberry candle to the burgundy kitchen counter for the phone photo. Yes, by all means, stick your snoot right down in there, get a load of that sight, feast your peepers on my discovery. Uh huh. Me, too. The retching will subside once you look away. Would you like to join me in my exclamation of disgust? One...two...three...
THAT'S FREAKIN' TOENAILS!
How silly of me to think a Walmart candle was safe on an electric fireplace mantle! Safe to sit, at the ready, in case of a power outage. Ready to bring light. Perhaps a bit of warmth. Pardon the appearance of the candle proper. I am not in the habit of dusting wax. Okay. I am not in the habit of dusting. So sue me. Maybe I would have made this discovery sooner if I was a more fastidious housewife. Good thing we did not lose our power last night, signaling me to rush to that cranberry candle with a long wooden match. "Yuck! I'll never buy another Walmart cranberry candle! Those things smell like FEET!"
There are three residents of this Backroads mansion. Me. The Pony. Hick. I am not in a habit of clipping my toenails in the living room. Not that I'm putting on airs about my grooming etiquette. Truth be told, ol' Val cannot comfortably bend over and trim her hooves while sitting in the La-Z-Boy. She prefers to prop them on the side of the triangle tub in the master bathroom for pruning. The Pony sits on the long couch and hikes his Clydesdale-size clompers on the coffee table. That leaves one suspect.
Upon interrogation, Mr. Hick Thevictorian stated unequivocally that he did not know where Exhibit A originated. Furthermore, Mr. H. Thevictorian inquired, "What IS that? Let me have it. Let me look. Give it to me. Just tip it over so I can see better. Huh. That looks like fingernails. I have no idea where they came from."
No. Not fingernails. Tiny toenails from misshapen feet with itty bitty toes, stub toes, toes that somehow sprout great talons overnight undercover of a Grandma quilt, to jab one's loving life partner until blood flows as from an open-throttle faucet.
When given one last chance to un-perjure himself, Mr. H. Thevictorian stated, "Wait. I remember now. I picked them up off the carpet the other night. I don't know where they came from."
Yeah. Because everybody who discovers toenails on the carpet deposits them in a cranberry Walmart candle on the mantle of their electric fireplace, no questions asked.
I rest my case, and await the book-throwing at this scofflaw.
A cranberry candle ain't safe in a house full of Hick.