Weird ceramic duck sponge holder thingie

Okay, so I think we've determined I'm not the greatest housekeeper out there. But hey—even if I may be the anti-Martha I can still spot useless crap at a hundred yards. This is one of those things.

I suppose if you like little ceramic duckies you will like this. But a scrubber sponge the size of a postage stamp? Um, when I make a mess, it's not a dainty little thing that requires a swipe with a tiny thing like that. Think more along the lines of "open gallon of paint being flung about the room by an angry gorilla".

"I Love My Country Home"
Pillow-Type Decorative Implement/Apparent Deathtrap

Yeah, I live out in the country. Yeah, we used to have chickens, though we owned Rhode Island Reds and not this generic artist's representation of what appears to be a Barred Plymouth. And yeah, I do rather like my house, despite its many flaws, although I don't think it's quite strong enough to call "love". A family member, say—yes, then it would be love, and quite frankly, I would abandon my beloved country home and live with them under a bridge if the situation warranted. While I enjoy living here, I would not say that about my house. Still, people use "love" to mean lesser sorts of love—like, say, chocolate—so I guess I COULD say I "love" my country home in the sense that, if I DIDN'T "love" it, I would probably move. I mean, duh.

(My suspicion--or perhaps my INTUITION?--is that this little number will prove to be the Schick Razor of 2006. Just a feeling. Prove me wrong!)

I was cleaning house the other day (this whole anecdote, unfortunately, kinda demonstrates just how often I clean house) when I came across this leatherette pouch. We've moved it around from house to house through the years. I always thought it was some grooming utensil my husband kept but when I finally questioned him he didn't know—he thought it was mine. Looking at it I had no idea what in heck 'n' tarnation this thing was, but since it had a power cord I decided to follow my impulse to plug it in and see if the house blows up.

Yes, my friends, Christmas magic has sunk to an all new low with this truly craptacular gift. I believe Santa himself gave me this. In my family, a gift from Santa can mean one of three things: a tiny stocking stuffer; a gift you give yourself but you don't want the family to know (not the case here I assure you); or a gift so putridly bad you are ashamed to attach your name to it for fear of reprisals. And believe me, my family WILL retaliate if you give them the slightest opportunity.

The Requisite Back Story:
Every year, a Certain Someone gives me hand towels. It's what they do. Every year they come in a nice holiday box in a bed of tissue paper so they won't break. Now, I don't mind hand towels—let me go on record as saying I am an Active Proponent for Personal Hygiene, and washing one's hands is an integral part of the process. These are fairly nice quality towels, but they are always purchased with no regard for any sort of color scheme, real or imagined. So unless there's some sort of Fiestaware trend in hand towels that makes mixing weird colors Fun and Kicky I really have no place for them in my house.