Sad, soggy, wilted herbage from the green grocer. I tended them with care, sang them little lullabies, but alas, my parsley seems to be heading to the great Vegie Garden in the sky.
Ticks. Ticks are never hot, no they are not. Especially when they are embedded in the heads of the bebes. Totally not hot.
An unidentifiable, not right, odour lurking in the fridge. Erk. Nothing worse then sniffing through shelf by shelf. Moving things, tossing things, then quietly tearing your hair out when the source remains hidden.