Alright, brace yourselves, folks, because we're about to embark on a journey through the tangled labyrinth of literary disappointment. Picture it: 2014—a bygone era when cozy mysteries were like timeless boxers, clinging to the shelves for years, if not decades. Take, for instance, Joanne Fluke's endless saga of Hannah Swensen mysteries, a veritable feast for cozy aficionados spanning over 30 books, cookbooks, and short stories. Cozy mysteries, my friends, are the golden goose of the literary world, a lucrative treasure trove for authors seeking long-term success.

Now, let's talk about Kate Carlisle—or should I say, the elusive mastermind behind the pseudonym. Cozy mystery writers love to don multiple hats, and Carlisle is no exception. Her bibliophile mysteries, featuring the indomitable Brooklyn Wainwright, are a rollercoaster ride of literary escapades. I mean, have you ever wondered what happened to the riotous humor of those early Brooklyn adventures? Yeah, me too.

So, armed with my trusty Audible subscription and a glimmer of hope, I dove headfirst into the Fixer-Upper Mysteries. After all, if Carlisle's Brooklyn escapades could steal my heart, surely her foray into home renovation-themed mysteries would be a slam dunk, right? Wrong.

The journey begins with a foreboding twist—a failed attempt at suspense quickly devolving into a mishmash of melodrama and misplaced humor. And let's not forget the cringe-worthy portrayal of a certain "sexual assault" scene, conveniently labeled as a mere "attack." Oh, the joys of narrative ambiguity.

As the plot unfolds, it becomes painfully clear that Shannon Hammer—our fearless protagonist—might just be the textbook definition of "self-centered." And don't even get me started on the supporting cast. From blind date disasters to near-drowning dilemmas, it's a veritable circus of flawed characters, each more detestable than the last.

Now, I'm all for suspending disbelief in the name of literary escapism, but even I have my limits. The over-the-top antics and contrived plot twists felt more like a poorly executed soap opera than a cozy mystery. It's like someone took a cheesy romance novel, sprinkled in a few murders, and hoped for the best.

And let's talk about the narration—oh, the horror! Picture this: a narrator struggling to channel their inner baritone, resulting in a cacophony of cringe-worthy attempts at male voices. It's like listening to a one-woman show with a particularly dismal cast of characters.

But wait, it gets worse. Much worse. So bad, in fact, that I found myself questioning the very fabric of my sanity with each passing chapter. And yet, amidst the chaos and confusion, a glimmer of hope emerged—a faint promise of redemption in the form of Fixer-Upper Mystery #2: This Old Homicide.

So, dear reader, should you dare to venture into the murky waters of the Fixer-Upper Mysteries? Well, that's a question only you can answer. But let me leave you with this: proceed with caution, lest you find yourself ensnared in a web of disappointment and regret. And if, by some twist of fate, you do decide to take the plunge, may the literary gods have mercy on your soul.

As for me, I'll be nursing my wounded intellect with a stiff drink and a comforting reminder that there are worse books out there. Much worse.