Sunday Morning Glitterfetti Cockroaches

They say that glitter is the herpes of the craft supply world. I’ve always had the tendancy to agree with that. Although, now that I think about it,  I don’t know. I’m thinking more along the lines of it being right up there with leprosy. I do think that exposure to the stuff, very well could contribute to the loss of a limb.

I’ll just come right out and say it here. I hate glitter.

Let me explain. I worked at a card shop for two years. We all do desperate things in desperate times and this was one of my hours of need. Yes, before you ask, I was asked on more than one occasion by shoppers if I had gotten sucked into some kind of satanic cult, to which I always smiled, nodded and assured them that I wasn’t harvesting souls that day. I didn’t really fit in there, but I did a good job, had some great coworkers that “got me” and it paid the bills until something better came along.

One thing you must know about a card shop is that everything, and I do mean everything is covered in glitter. You may not see it at first, but it’s there. Trust me, it’s there. It’s waiting in the wings, ready to pounce at any moment. It will attack when you least expect it. There is no way to exit a card shop without at least a smattering of glitter somewhere on your body. In fact, if we did see someone who had somehow escaped the wrath of the wild glitter in  the store, we pulled out all the stops and released the glitter bombs at the door as they exited. Finely cut metallic death rained upon the hapless victims who smugly believed they had escaped unscathed.

Okay, so we didn’t really have glitter bombs. I sort of wish we had. I’d have put them to good use.

Anyways. Card shop. Glitter. Yes. Not one day did I leave my shift without being covered. Cards, knickknacks, ornaments, they all had it. One of my major duties was the shipping and receiving, so I was into it from the time it entered the building until it ran through the registers on its way to its newfound beginnings. I’m serious when I say that this stuff finds its way into your body. All of the people who worked there had skin issues from time to time. The finest glitter would get into your pores. No joke. You’d breathe it in and sneeze it out. Never mind what got into your hair, your clothes, the washing machine, the seat cushions of anything you sat on- even on your days off. Yeah, it was bad.

Glitter and anxiety don’t really mix. I’m feeling my skin crawl just writing about the stuff.

I’m lucky to be married to someone who feels the same about the stuff as I do.

Once upon a time, when he was a late teenager, early twenty-something, my dear husband, Chad went clubbing with some friends. One of his friends dumped an entire bottle of glitter over his own head in the back of Chad’s car. Said friend thought it was cute. Chad never did get the damned stuff out of the upholstery. Chad gets neurotic around glitter to this day. Just the other day, I was putting up the Christmas tree. I sat a box of ornaments on Chad’s side of the sofa. Apparently some glitter had leaked out. See,  I like to live dangerously at the holidays, so I actually own a few ornaments that are covered with glitter. I figure it’s the holidays- time to face our fears and aggravations head on. I mean, this is why we gather with family isn’t it? I don’t really have any family to deal with, so I bought glitter ornaments instead. Just as annoying. Somewhat quieter. The glitter ornaments at least keep their opinions to themselves. I digress once again. Let’s just say that Chad’s anxiety spiked when he saw the glitter on the sofa that I had neglected to notice. It wasn’t pretty. It’s cleaned up now and my marriage is still intact.

We both hate glitter.

Now, one could argue that metallic confetti is not glitter. I would choose to challenge that point. It’s nothing more than huge-ass glitter. It’s just as persistent as it’s minuscule counterpart, despite its size. Hellbent to take over the world.

I have proof. With photos.

On May 8, 2015 I had the opportunity to see Marilyn Manson in concert. This was something that I had wanted to do for a very long time and I was extremely excited. So excited in fact, that the occurrences that happened later in the evening did not faze me until much, much later. The show was awesome. I had a great time. Chad and I went with our friend Kev, were packed like sardines close to the stage and survived the pits and other mischief that permeated the evening.

Towards the end of the show, the glitter-fetti was released. Tons upon tons of little silver pieces of foil were dumped on us. We were happy. We didn’t care. This wasn’t real glitter. This was confetti. Much different. Or so we thought.

Let me share some images…

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Here you see Chad and I as the metallic snow begins to fall.

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Chad, Kev, and I accepting our fate as the target of this little foil madness. Look at my Chest for crying out loud (by the way, that’s the only time I will ever demand that you look at my chest) That’s all glitterfetti!!

11255023_10153058828440668_1470022275457595022_nThis was me after we got home. I looked like a freakin’ disco ball. And that weird shine on my neck and chin? FROM THE GLITTERFETTI!

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I gotta hand it to him, that night, Chad truly showed his commitment to Sparkle Motion.

We literally peeled off what we could and let the rest take its chances in the shower. I’m sure our pipes are now lined with shiny happy goodness. I picked what I could out of my wig. The opening act had spit Sunny Delight (claiming it to be some kind of hard alcohol) into the audience and my wig caught the biggest portion of it. So yeah, sticky, glittery, orangey mess. That was fun. At least it wasn’t my real hair.

I did our laundry a few days later…

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This went on for weeks.

My bathroom was covered in the stuff. We began finding it in the car. The vacuum was much used at this point in time. Bits would show up in the living room. The kitchen.
It soon became apparent that this “fun” confetti that was dropped was nothing more than the big brother of your ordinary, run of the mill, cockroach of an art/party supply… glitter.

Keep in mind that this has been a year and a half ago. I may not be the best housekeeper on the face of the planet, but I do clean. I have cleaned our house multiple times in that year and a half if you can believe that. Not quite two weeks ago, I gave the bathrooms a good going over. I pulled everything out of the cabinets, purged, cleaned, restocked.I took out the heat/ac vents and vacuumed them out.  I cleaned the floors and around the fixtures on my hands and knees. I used scrub brushes, steam cleaners, and the nifty drill bit cleaner brush that Chad discovered online.

Then this happened.

I woke up on this fine, quiet Sunday morning. Went into my nice still semi-clean bathroom and proceeded to take my shower. When I finished and was hanging my towel back up to dry, I looked down at the floor. Now, I’m extremely nearsighted, but something caught my eye.

No.
It can’t be.

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Oh hell.

Manson Glitterfetti.

I don’t know where it came from.

I’m scared.

If you don’t hear from me, it’s the glitter. It’s finally gotten me.

Help!

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