I have two VERY IMPORTANT MYSTERIES to tell you about but first, I totally have an omission and I feel SO BAD.
So my play opened this weekend, I realize I didn’t even TELL you all about that. What’s that? You don’t even CARE? Go read a sports blog, Slappy. My play opened Friday. Pay-what-you-will preview Thursday, opening night Friday, shows Saturday and Sunday. So I’m a sleepy potato right now, no joke. It went beautifully, and the cast is wonderful, and they make me laugh and laugh, and the director, my wonderful friend K., is just the bees knees, and I got to see some friends I haven’t seen in a while when they came to see the show as audience members, and I totally gave out ALL THE HUGS so you’re missing out if you live locally and you didn’t come to see my show yet because, all the hugs. But! Do not fret. Two more weekends! I have hugs to SPARE. We had reviews in both the papers – one was a total crapfest (although I won reviewing the reviewer when I emailed someone he was “an asshat wearing a douchecanoe jacket” and her boyfriend asked if he could use that in conversation, as if I had a COPYRIGHT on my awesome phraseology, listen, you can totally use it, words are FREE. I mean, if you want to say “I got that from Amy at Lucy’s Football HERE IS HER URL” that’s fine. I mean, unless I know you, because that would seem odd, probably then you would just say “I got that from Amy, you know Amy, the one with the crazy eyes and hair” and they’d be all “Of course, how many Amys are there with the crazy eyes and hair”) and the other was actually very complimentary and nice, overall, so that was nice. Then I had auditions for our NEXT show for two nights. So just in case the like, two of you who pay attention to such things are wondering why I’ve been kind of a ghost lately, it’s because I’ve been pretty much living at the theater. Which is a nice place to live, but I miss my place and Dumbcat and my couch and my television and my bed.
Also, I’d totally like to talk about auditions? Because there were shenanigans? But I can’t. I just can’t. It would be SO MEAN. I know, the odds of one of the shenanigan-makers stumbling upon this blog are kind of infinitesimal, but even though there were shenanigans, I can’t be mean, IN PRINT, to someone who actually got off their duff and came out to audition. I just can’t. Even though I want to. If you know me in person, however, all bets are off, and I will totally act out the shenanigans for you in great detail, because they were OFF THE HOOK INSANE you guys. Yowza.
OK! So you know how I like TRUE CRIME and MYSTERIES and shit like that? I have TWO REAL LIFE MYSTERIES that we need to discuss. One is…just effing perplexing, I can’t even. The other is kind of sciency so I think probably Andreas can solve it. But also it’s gross and potentially might cause my death and involves the word “balls.” Hee! Balls.
99…no, wait, 98 luftballons…WTF?
My dad totally told me not to blog about this – “because of the government” – but this is way too good not to blog about you guys.
So a couple of weeks ago it was my mom’s birthday and she got flowers and balloons from the ladies she works with. The flowers died (that’s why flowers are a shit gift, yo, seriously, and I’m not just saying that because I don’t ever get any? I want something that lasts, and that I could possibly pawn and/or shoot at when you inevitably leave me. NO NOT YOU DR. RUFFALO OUR LOVE IS HERE TO STAY) but the balloons stayed up. My mom said this is because they were made of Kevlar which made me giggle because the idea of a Kevlar balloon that no one could ever shoot down, ever ever, was the best. No. Mylar balloons. You know. Those obnoxious crinkly-ass tinny things that make weird noises when you walk past them and also are staticky. Although a Kevlar balloon would be a much better gift for me. SOMEONE BUY ME A KEVLAR BALLOON.
So they were in the kitchen of my parents’ house. Two balloons. The nephew liked them because he would run around all King-Kong-esque screaming letting them trail behind him. My parents went out to go shopping Saturday. They locked the house. Who doesn’t lock the house? Killers could get in and hide in your closet and you’d have no one but yourself to blame. Or – well, they live in the boonies, so I guess deer or cows might get in the house more than killers. Although there totally ARE killers up there, no joke? A few years back, this woman I used to go to church with got axe-murdered. I’ll talk about that someday. IT WAS THE WORST. And? Totally still unsolved. SO CREEPY.
Anyway, ZOMG Sherlock Holmes would get so annoyed with me as a witness with my tangentizing, when my parents got home? One balloon in the kitchen.
This PERPLEXED my parents. They thought, did it drift away? Did it float somewhere? (We all FLOOAAATTT down here, kid, want a balloon? UGH) They looked all over the house. No balloon. They called the people who have keys to their house in case of emergency. (The idea of that conversation cracks me up. “Hey, did you let yourself into our house in that hour we were gone yesterday, steal a few-weeks-old balloon from the kitchen, and let yourself back out, without telling anyone? No? OK, thanks, love you, bye!”) No one knew anything about the balloon.
At this point, my mom was all (as I would have been), “Eh, mysteries, they happen.” NOT MY SHERLOCK HOLMESIAN DAD. He tore the house APART. Upstairs. Downstairs. In the BASEMENT – even though the doors to the basement were closed. (I asked my mom if he thought the balloon was a sentient being capable of opening doors and she said she wasn’t sure.) He looked in the VACCUUM CLEANER BAG. (“You didn’t think I’d notice vaccumming up a fully-inflated helium balloon made of Kevlar?” my mom asked him.) He walked around the house looking for CLUES as to HOW THE CRIMINALS BROKE IN TO STEAL THE BALLOON. (When I asked him what he discovered, he said, “There were mysterious footprints outside. THEY WERE NOT MINE.” I said, “So…you think they broke in, stole mom’s three-week-old half-deflated birthday balloon, and NOTHING ELSE, and then left again?” “No, they probably were casing the joint,” he said. “So…you not only lost a balloon, you now live in a film noir?” I asked. He did not like that one little bit. “THIS IS NOT A JOKE,” he said.)
Mom popped and hid the balloon somewhere he couldn’t find it to make him think he’s going crazy because he saw that in a movie once and he thinks it might be to get his inheritance but when I brought up he doesn’t even have an inheritance he was all, oh, yeah, right, she doesn’t really have much of a reason to do that, other than just to be really mean
The government did it (it’s kind of hazy why they would have, but he’s pretty sure it sounds like them)
The aforementioned “casing the joint” person
Ghosts (“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Amy, too scary”)
Aliens (“I SAID STOP IT, I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS ANYMORE, I’M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO SLEEP TONIGHT, AMY”)
I emailed my mom this morning and asked her if there was a resolution and there still isn’t and it’s been four days. “It’s still driving your father insane. I’m hoping eventually he’ll forget about it and we can laugh about it someday,” she said.
The only theory I have is that it’s been cold in my hometown, which makes my parents’ furnace kick on, and that might have created currents that blew the balloon out of the kitchen…somewhere? Else? I don’t know where. A parallel universe filled with Kevlar balloons and all my missing socks from the laundry room, maybe? The balloon was filled with helium. I can’t imagine where it went. It’s not like we have vaulted ceilings in that house. We’re poor people. It’s like this little house with ceilings I can touch if I lift my hand up over my head. It is not Westminster Abbey, for the love of Pete.
OK, minions, get crackin’! Who can solve the mystery of the Kevlar balloon? If one of you actually solves it, and my dad FINDS THE BALLOON in the place you say it will be, you’re either brilliant, or the person who’s been casing the joint. If it’s the former, I’ll totally send you a prize. If it’s the latter, ZOMG. Why are you casing my parents’ joint? I can assure you the most expensive thing in their house is a computer from 1991.
What’s Valentine’s Day without a little porn?
OK, here’s MYSTERY THE SECOND.
The night before Valentine’s Day, I went to bed with two balls in my mouth; Valentine’s Day morning, I woke up with one.
WHAT THE HELL.
This isn’t remotely as filthy as it sounds.
So, you know how I have a tongue ring? In case you’re not aware, they’re set up like this:
They have a bar with a ball permanently attached to it, and the other end is another ball, which screws onto the bar.
I liked my platinum tongue ring the best, because it didn’t have the weird tendency to come unscrewed, but my dentist recoiled in horror when she saw it and was all “YOU WILL HAVE NO TEETH IN LIKE A YEAR GET PLASTIC” so I had to downgrade, dammit.
So now I have plastic tongue rings. Well, the balls (heh) are plastic; the bar is obviously stainless steel.
So I went to bed and it was firmly in place, balls and all.
Then I woke up, and when I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth I was all, “Whaa? This feels odd” and THE TOP BALL WAS GONE.
That’s the ball that unscrews.
SO! In the middle of the night, the top ball came unscrewed.
Here’s the question.
WHERE THE HELL DID IT GO.
Obviously, there are two options here.
I either swallowed or inhaled it.
Andreas! This is about SCIENCE, even though it’s totally funny that I either swallowed or inhaled balls. Is there a better chance that I swallowed or inhaled it? If I swallowed it, who cares, the digestive tract works wonders and it’s small. If I inhaled it, am I totally going to die of black lung now? Does it help your analysis that I’m totally the loudest snorer in all the land? DON’T YOU EVEN JUDGE ME IT’S HEREDITARY. But I’m thinking, since my mouth is all open and I’m snoring like Rip Van Amy, probably I inhaled it and it’s in my lungs all plastic and that can’t be good, right? It was SPARKLY plastic, too. WITH STRIPES. That’s totally going to be one jaunty tumor I gave myself by inhaling balls.
YES, I checked the sheets in case balls fell out of my mouth. They didn’t. Heh.
YES, I’m aware I have the mindset of a teenager. I don’t even care. Saying “balls” and “swallow” and “inhale” is FUNNY, yo.
Anyway, so I now have a blue sparkly tongue ring installed and it’s screwed (heh, screwed) down tight so probably I won’t swallow or inhale that one, maybe.
I know it’s utterly shocking that I’m single. It amazes me on a daily basis.
Look, it totally amazes Benedict Cumberbatch, too.