For any human unlucky enough to enter my abode, it should quickly become clear that I am not a home maker.

My house is always a fright. Tidying up seems so pointless and boring. And after all of these centuries, what’s a little dust? Besides, that’s what the domestic help is for. Well, for that and for a hot meal. And by hot, I mean about 98.6 degrees.

Who has time to clean with so many books to read, so much wine to drink, so many lovers to take and so many veins to open. Still, sometimes I feel a bit inadequate — a strange feeling for me — around those of my kind who devote even a modicum of time and energy to keeping up their homes.

Let me tell you about Selinda. She’s a frenemy — don’t be dreary, dears, we invented the term in 1470 — who insists on doing everything just a little bit better than the rest of us and then charmingly pointing out that, “Oh, it’s just a little something I whipped up in my spare time.” As if we all don’t have time eternal at our fingertips. She manages to put the “ass” in passive aggressive, but I still love her.

Here are just a few of the things she’s done to irritate me in the last year:

Hand-knitted coffin cozies. She gives them to all her friends. We don’t even get cold when we’re dead. They are cute though, and it does bring a smile to my face when I open the lid and see the darling little patterns.

Compostable corpse totes. Only Selinda can make being a vampire green. She hand-sews these sturdy little tote bags out of hemp fiber and reclaimed shoe laces, with adorable little handles made out of twists of willow twigs. And she puts herbs herb seeds right into the lining. They are strong enough to carry a body in each hand and if you bury them in a shallow grave, you’ll be harvesting fresh basil and parsley. Too precious by half.

Blood jelly. There is something sick, and not in the pleasing way, about a mind so organized, so anal , so obsessive-compulsive, that she literally saves blood from her victims to turn into jelly to share with friends. When I am feeding, I forget that I even have friends — I forget everything other than an insatiable thirst for blood. Bless her though, for her restraint. The jelly is quite delicious, especially on toasted English muffins with fresh creamery butter.

Scented candles made from human fat. Selinda is unwilling to let anything go to waste, and she’s quite handy with a butcher knife. She saves the fat from her plumper victims, reduces it down and makes the most charming, whimsical candles. They burn with such a bright, clear light, and she often uses clove oil or some other such scent so it makes the whole house smell like Christmas.

Chocolate chip cookies with a hint of lavender. There’s nothing especially sinister about these, they are just delicious. Whenever she bakes, and it is annoyingly often, I share mine with the fine men and women of the local police station. I like to be on a first name basis with officials who might be required to ask personal and potentially embarrassing questions about late night screams or the disappearance of undocumented help.

Those are just a few of the many, many things Selinda does to make the rest of us feel like lazy dullards. She’s like an undead Martha Stewart — though come to think of it, I’ve never seen Martha Stewart in the daylight — and though I do find her annoying, I certainly could use a plate of those cookies right about now. It seems a young homeless man known to live under an overpass near my home has gone missing. I expect the police to drop by any minute and I am certain they won’t care for blood jelly and crumpets.topodin