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Category Archives: accidents

A not-so-sweet saga

Let me preface this by saying, there are a few things in the world I am very good at, and I *know* I am very good at them.

I think we all have these things. Like, your thing might be painting, or you always seem to pick the best books out of the library even though you know nothing about them like you have the best radar at it, or you just know which line in the grocery store will move most quickly even if it’s not the one with the fewest people in it.

We’re brought up to hide our lights under bushels. Bragging is seen as wrong and rude. Well, I say fie on that. If you have weird talents, CELEBRATE THEM. Sing your praises to the high heavens about your weird talents! It’s not like anyone else is going to do it!

I am passing average at a lot of things, I am downright terrible at MOST things, but I am very good at a few things. Those things are:

  • somehow winning people (and animals) over with my quirky charm and making them laugh even when I’m not trying to (ok, the laughing only applies to the humans, here, and I guess it might apply to hyenas but I don’t know any hyenas);
  • crocheting (I know, this is totally my apocalypse skill, I can make you all very warm blankets);
  • shopping for the best, most appropriate gifts for my loved ones for special occasions, and
  • baking cookies.

My mother taught me the crocheting and the baking when I was young and I randomly carried these skills over with me into adulthood. I think the winning-people-over thing came from Dad. We’re very good at being sociable, even though we don’t like it much. No idea where the shopping thing came from. Guess that’s all me.

I taught myself cookie-making tricks. There was a lot of trial-and-error. I learned things like good ingredients really do make all the difference, and that parchment paper saves the bottom of cookies and makes them look like restaurant cookies and you need to check on the cookies quite often to make sure you take them out of the oven at JUST THE RIGHT TIME! and refrigerating the dough beforehand stops them from spreading too much so you don’t have these weird flat crunchy too-thin cookies. There were a lot of fails. But sometimes, fails lead to wins.

DELICIOUS WINS.

I promise I never look like this. I'm usually covered in flour and/or chocolate and who has time to curl their hair? Good grief.

I promise I never look like this. I’m usually covered in flour and/or chocolate and who has time to curl their hair? Good grief.

I have a number of tried-and-true cookie recipes that I fall back on time and time again. Every now and then, I’ll find five more or so, and try them all, and if they work out, I’ll add one or two more to the repertoire, but mostly I make the following:

  • Chocolate Rads (these are the most labor-intensive cookies you can imagine, and involve melting chocolate and a double-boiler and letting the dough rest in the refrigerator until it’s a rock-hard chocolate block and making them into little balls by hand until you’re so covered with chocolate you look like maybe you’ve murdered someone that works at Hershey but it’s SO WORTH IT because they taste like brownies mixed with cookies and also have espresso in them so they make you VERY SPEEDY)
  • Chocolate Chip Cookies (but before you’re all “duh, who can’t make these, mine are like the ones you get in restaurants, only better, and involve many steps, very expensive chocolate, and Paula-Deen-esque levels of butter)
  • Rum Balls (I only make these for BFF, because he loves them to distraction, and even getting too close to them gives you a contact high, whoo!)
  • Maple Shortbread (imagine the butteriest shortbread ever, but it tastes like maple syrup. But not so much that it gives you a sugar high. Just enough that it’s like a hint of pancakes. AMAZINGNESS)
  • Anisette Toast (forget the Anisette Toast you can get in the store that’s all stale and crunchy; this is moist and licoricey and slightly sweet and very dense)
  • Peanut Butter Kisses (yeah, I know, boring, but they’re Dad’s favorite, and whenever I’m bringing cookies home, he says, “I wonder if there will be any of those cookies with the kisses in the middle because they’re really the only good ones,” so it’s not like I CAN’T make them)
  • Nutella Cupcakes (these things frost themselves with Nutella. They’re like magic. MAGIC, I TELL YOU!)
  • Gooey Butter Cookies (these are embarrassingly good and involve a ton of cream cheese and butter and a box of cake mix. Don’t ask. They are chemically delicious heart attacks.)

I know I can go back to these time and time again and they’ll work out well. I’ve made them over and over; I know the quirks of the recipes and I know they’re crowd-pleasers. (I like to be the one that brings the best thing to a potluck. I like people to say, “YOU MUST GIVE ME THIS RECIPE.” I like to hear from across a room “who made these cookies?” when their mouth is FULL of the cookies and it’s like they’re having a mouthgasm. These things are really pleasing to me. I like the plate to be empty when the night is over, even if it means I don’t get to bring home leftovers.)

This is all leading up to an EPIC FAIL. Stick with me.

So. In news of things that are out of the ordinary…I was invited to a party. A REAL PARTY THAT IS OUTSIDE OF MY HOUSE.

You know my theory about parties, right? That theory is no, hell no, OH hell no, and I think I have to wash my hair all night long sorry nope uh-uh nope nope NOOOOOPE.

To add to this, it is a SUPERBOWL PARTY. This is a party REVOLVING AROUND SPORTSBALL.

However, sometimes things happen that are out of your control, like, the party is being thrown by one of your most favorite humans, who has been so kind to you the entire time you’ve been new in town, and makes you laugh so hard you sometimes almost cry, and one time you yelled at this person because you were having a REALLY BAD MOMENT and it was forgiven, like, immediately? And some of your favorite work people will be at the party, so really, how bad can it be? And the fact that you were invited at all was SO, SO NICE? And there will be food there! Delicious snacky sportsballing food! And you’ll just have gotten out of work and you’ll be starving and all that delicious food will be there and your work friends will be there happy to see you!

So I grudgingly said, “So, I was thinking of going to your party” and got a “YES YOU SHOULD COME!” response so how could I not go, you know?

So we were all asked to bring something. Of course, cookies, I mean, it’s not like I’m going to bring a meatloaf. (Yes, I make a kickass meatloaf, but that’s not the point, because that’s not really the thing you bring to a party. It seems like an odd thing to bring along. “HEY HI THANKS FOR THE INVITE I BROUGHT THE LOAF OF MEAT,” you know?)

No, not YOU, Meatloaf. Put that madface away.

No, not YOU, Meatloaf. Put that madface away.

So! I got up early. I was out of baking soda, of all things. I ran to the store. OUT OF BAKING SODA. Another store. OUT OF BAKING SODA. (SIDE NOTE: is this a thing used to make the drugs? Why are so many stores out of baking soda, of all things? There’s a lot of meth being made here. Are people using baking soda to make meth? I suppose I could look that up, but then Time Warner might think I was a drug addict on top of a terrorist.)

HOLY CRAP! Does anyone KNOW about this? I JUST CURED CANCER BY USING THE PAST!

HOLY CRAP! Does anyone KNOW about this? I JUST CURED CANCER BY USING THE PAST!

So I finally got the baking soda and I came home and did a million things and then it was cookie-making time and I made the dough and and and…

…somehow, it did not work.

It wasn’t dough. It was sand. There was not enough liquid. I followed the recipe to the letter. I thought, oh, well, I will cook them. Maybe that will help. NO! They turned out like little rock-hard hockey pucks. Little chocolate-studded hockey pucks. I thought, “maybe they will be ok?” but after they cooled I’m pretty sure they could have been used as weapons if hurled at an intruder. You cannot bring these sorts of things to a party. Well, you could, but you’d get a lot of fake faces and “oh! Aren’t THESE good!” and I can’t even deal with such things.

I would take a photo but you can’t tell from looking at them that they are filling-destroying cookies. They just look like cookies. It’s misleading.

So. 9pm. ANOTHER BATCH OF COOKIES. The solution seemed to be COMPLETELY MELTING THE BUTTER. This has never been an issue before, I have no idea why this time the recipe decided to be so touchy.

You will be pleased to know the second batch is lovely and not at all too hard. Just right. Something I’ll be proud to arrive at the party with. (Whew.)

The moral of the story is: even if you are very, very good at something, sometimes you can fail.

Doesn’t mean you can’t shout from the rooftops how good you are at it. Just means that sometimes you have to scramble to do it over again when it fails.

(And you have an extra batch of VERY HARD, yet very chocolately and still edible, if you work at it, cookies, all for you. So, not a total loss, then.)

Wish me luck, jellybeans. Go go sportsball teams. Win kick run. Fully inflate your balls. Rah rah sis boom bah.

ME AT THE PARTY. Note that I'm not paying attention to the sportsballing. But I WILL be eating all the foods. YUM.

ME AT THE PARTY. Note that I’m not paying attention to the sportsballing. But I WILL be eating all the foods. YUM.

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In the Realm of the Fisher King (or Queen, let’s not be sexist about awesome fishers, sheesh)

Whoo! Saturday again? So soon? This is impressive, right?

It’s random crap day. I have lots of things that are not long enough for a whole blog post. I know, I could totally write a short blog post. HA HA HA. Who are we kidding, really? Why would I do something like that? That would be utter lunacy. SHEER MADNESS I TELL YOU. Next I suppose you’ll be telling me it’s time to stop using caps lock! What is the world COMING TO?

The Fisher King (or possibly queen, it’s not like anyone got close enough to look)

So my dad has a wood lot. Because he lives in the boonies, and they need wood so they can have a fire so they can heat the house. And he has a little garden up there. But something is EATING his garden. So he puts out a trap all year-round and sometimes catches things like skunks and one time he swears he caught a forty-pound raccoon but I think I didn’t get my penchant for exaggeration from the neighbors, you know? Also sometimes woodchucks.

So the other night I talked to him and he was all, “I HAVE A STORY” and that’s exciting, you know? I do so love stories.

Dad: So I was going up to the wood lot and I had to check the trap because maybe there was another forty pound raccoon in it. Only I couldn’t find the chicken I left in the truck yesterday that I wanted to put in the trap as bait.

Me: Wait, you left chicken in the truck? And it disappeared? That’s strange. Where did it go?

Dad: That’s not what the story’s about. I think your brother ate the chicken.

Me: He ate old truck-chicken? That seems like it would give him worms or something.

Dad: Again, not the point of the story.

Me: Also, are you sure that forty-pound thing was a raccoon? Maybe it was a wolverine.

Dad: Those things are FEROCIOUS. No, it wasn’t a wolverine. This isn’t a comic book.

Me: No, not HUGH JACKMAN. A REAL wolverine.

Dad: It was a raccoon. You’re really not going to let me tell this story.

Me: FINE.

Dad: So I called your brother and told him I was going up to the wood lot and he wanted to go, too.

Me: Did you ask him if he ate that wormy chicken?

Dad: THIS STORY IS NOT ABOUT THE CHICKEN OR THE RACCOON.

Me: Every story really has a story within the story; it’s just about getting the person to tell it to you.

Dad: You are infuriating.

Me: Yes.

Dad: So we went up to the wood lot and there was something in the trap, but it didn’t look like a raccoon or a skunk.

Me: Or a wolverine?

Dad: Or a wolverine. Guess what it was?

Me: A penguin.

Dad: Yes. It was a penguin, because we live at the Arctic Circle. NO. It was NOT A PENGUIN. It was a FISHER.

ZOMG LOOK AT THAT LITTLE FAAAACCCEEE!

Me: *squealing too high for anything but dogs to hear* A FISHER? They are AWESOME. Oh wait. Oh, no. Tell me you didn’t kill the fisher. This story doesn’t end with you killing the fisher, does it?

Dad: Please let me tell the story.

Me: If that’s how it ends, we need to change the subject now or I’m totally going to get upset and start singing that Sarah McLachlan dead animal song.

Dad: SO THEN, your brother got close to it, and it was actually pretty calm, until he put his face next to the cage. Then it hissed and showed its teeth. But then when we moved away, it sounded like it was purring.

Me: THEY PURR? WHY DIDN’T YOU ADOPT IT AND IT WOULD BE THE BEST PET.

See how it would be the best pet? I mean, before it ate your face off?

Dad: I told your brother, “Your sister is going to say, ‘Why don’t you adopt this fisher, it would be the best pet.’”

Me: Well? Why didn’t you? I want a fisher.

Dad: Your brother said, “Yes, it would be a great pet, until it ate your face off.”

Me: Yeah, you always run the risk of face-eating with pet fishers. That’s a fact.

Dad: So then I decided, this is one pretty animal. I have to let this go. Even though once it was in the trap, it ate all the chicken in there. I could have re-used that chicken, since I couldn’t find my other chicken.

Me: I AM SO GLAD THIS STORY DIDN’T END THE WAY I THOUGHT IT MIGHT. Wait, are you mad it ate the chicken? Of course it ate the chicken! It was like stress-eating. The poor fisher was all, “I am trapped! Might as well eat this delicious cage-chicken. IT MIGHT BE MY LAST MEAL ON EARTH. Nom nom.”

Dad: I like that you think you know how the fisher thinks. Anyway, the cage is really hard to open. And, as mentioned, there’s the face-eating to worry about. So I cut a stick and with some maneuvering, we got the cage open and that fisher ran and ran and ran. I think it’s still running. Like Forrest Gump.

Me: You realize that because you saved that fisher’s life, it owes you a favor now.

Dad: What? Only you would think of something like that.

Me: IT IS A PROVEN FACT. It’s like an Aesop’s Fable. Like the lion and the mouse, and the mouse pulled the thorn from the lion’s paw.

Dad: I don’t want to talk about that story. It sounds stupid. Lions and mice are not friends.

Me: Fine, we never finished discussing the disappearing chicken.

Dad: FINE. What kind of favor does that fisher owe me?

Me: So someday, you’ll be out walking in the woods, and you’ll fall and break your leg where no one will hear you calling for help. And the fisher will appear!

Dad: And let me kill it and eat it so I don’t starve to death?

Me: THAT IS NOT HOW FABLES WORK. Fables are for CHILDREN. Children would be HORRIFIED at that kind of fable.

Dad: Well, how else would a fisher save me?

Me: It would go run for help.

Dad: Oh. And how would it get help?

Me: It would flag down a passing car with its long tail and lead them to you.

Dad: That is one talented fisher.

Me: I know. You’re probably feeling pretty stupid you didn’t adopt it as the most awesome pet ever right now. Because, PURRING.

Dad: No. Because, FACE-EATING.

As you can see by this story, I am not adopted, and come by my rambling storytelling technique genetically. THROUGH SCIENCE.

Either a crazy or a dope-fiend. Either way, totally both racist and homophobic. Yet oddly cheerful.

So I went to get my car fixed this week, THANK YOU ASSHAT CAR VANDAL, and while waiting at the garage and playing with my phone and reading and such, a man came in. He was probably my age. Somewhat attractive, in a bro sort of way.

Bro: IS THERE WI-FI IN HERE?

Bro talked LOUDLY. Like, if Bro was writing, it would be all-caps, all the time. And RAPIDLY. And looking at Bro, I realized, he was really twitchy. And his eyes were WILD. So I decided that probably Bro was on some sort of speedy drug. Or possibly a lot of Red Bull.

Bro discovered that there WAS, INDEED, wi-fi in the garage (“YES! WI-FI! THIS IS AWESOME!!!!”), and he then sat down RIGHT NEXT TO ME, even though there were about seven other chairs that were NOT right next to me.

Bro: DO YOU WANT A BOAT?

Me: Um. No?

Bro: HA HA HA. EVERYONE WANTS A BOAT.

Me: I don’t. I can’t swim.

Bro: HA HA HA. OF COURSE YOU CAN. EVERYONE CAN SWIM. LOOK AT MY BOAT.

He then pulled up Ebay Motors and I was regaled with a story about how this BOAT was TOTALLY AWESOME and he was going to PURCHASE IT from OHIO and he was pretty sure he could get it for only $16,000, which was a VERY GOOD PRICE FOR A BOAT.

Now, listen. As a rule, I totally don’t talk to people who are so hell-bent on talking to me in public places because STRANGER DANGER and also I hate people. But this guy was SO EFFING ENTERTAINING. At first. At FIRST he was entertaining. Until he started being a looney. Also, you all know I love all-caps, and this guy TALKED IN ALL-CAPS. I’m pretty sure he was about one toot away from a heart attack, and he was entertaining himself so, so thoroughly with the loud-talking. So I totally talked to him, even though he punctuated every sentence he said with a slap on my leg or arm, for emphasis. I mean, not HARD. But totally a slap. Not a sexy slap. Just a “HA HA HA” slap. He was a hot mess. It was kind of like watching a slow-motion car wreck. You know you SHOULDN’T want to watch. But you do anyway. OH! Also he had a lot of very white teeth. Like, TOO white. And too even. They looked like PROP teeth.

Then he started getting both racist AND homophobic. But in a weirdly jolly way. I’m not sure what to make of that.

Bro: DO YOU WANT TO SEE WHAT’S GIVING ME A HEART ATTACK?

Me: Um. I guess?

(Bro closes Ebay Motors, sadly, and then opens a photo of some teenagers in cheerleading uniforms. I did not like the very pervy direction this conversation was heading.)

Bro: THIS IS MY DAUGHTER! (points to one of the girls.)

Me: (inner “whew”) Oh! She’s lovely!

Bro: I KNOW. I HOPE SHE GETS FAT OR TURNS INTO A LESBIAN.

Although, he didn’t say lesbian. He said an offensive TERM for lesbians. This was off-putting and I was kind of knocked for a loop and didn’t know how to respond. It was not so much “crackhead bro behavior” as “ignorant redneck behavior.”

Me: I don’t…I don’t think her sexual preference or weight will make you worry about her less, honestly.

Bro: HA HA HA. YOU TALK FUNNY. LET’S LOOK AT MY BOAT MORE.

Then we looked at his boat a little more.

Bro: THE REASON I CAN GET THIS SO CHEAP IS BECAUSE IT HAS SOME DAMAGE BECAUSE BOATS LIKE THIS? YOU CAN GO 70 OVER WAVES WITH THEM. AND THAT CAUSES DAMAGE. WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO GO 70 OVER A WAVE IN THIS BOAT?

Me: No. Because I can’t swim. So then I would fall out. And die.

Bro: HA HA HA! FALL OUT AND DIE SHE SAYS! YOU JUST NEED TO CONQUER YOUR FEAR! EVEN AFRICAN-AMERICANS CAN SWIM IF THEY CONQUER THEIR FEAR!

Although he didn’t SAY African-Americans? He said the word that if you say it, it makes an entire ROOM go quiet because it is SO ABSOLUTELY NOT ALLOWED?

My coked-out friend was really getting to be a worry. And yes, before anyone gets all up-in-arms, probably I should have been all “teaching moment” and all “sir, that terminology really isn’t appropriate” but listen. THIS GUY WAS WIRED ON SOMETHING. And he was a STRANGER. If it makes you feel any better about the state of the world, after he started being a total weirdo who hated all the people for their sexual partners and skin colors, I kind of buried my nose in my book and just made a random “uh-huh” and “oh” here and there to his ongoing rant because it was very, very awkward.

Even the garage guy came in at one point, saw Bro there, and made a beeline back to the relative safety of grease guns and loud banging.

Bro then told me a story about how, at his last job, although they LOVED him, he’d done over $1.5 MILLION in damages, and so they’d had to let him go. But they didn’t WANT to let him go. It was just an insurance thing. YOU KNOW? *leg slap* YOU KNOW HOW THAT IS? *leg slap*

Finally, the car was repaired and I was SAFE and I could ESCAPE. Poor Bro. He looked sad. Who would he talk to now? Luckily, Project Runway was on the television. I can only imagine the things he was saying about my favorite mentor, Tim Gunn. I’m glad I left when I did.

So! Heads-up, people on Sacandaga Lake! Bro’s getting a BOAT! And does A LOT OF HIGH-PRICED DAMAGE! And seems to be CHEERILY RACIST AND HOMOPHOBIC! I’d probably stay out of the water, if I were you. Maybe stay safely on land. Have a nice party somewhere with walls, or something, I don’t know. Just a tip.

My favorite lovebirds, aw! Squish!

Happy first anniversary to R and A, two of my favorite lovebirds! I can’t wait to see you in 4 or 5 months and we will have all the adventures and I will goggle in awe over your LATEST COLLABORATION, who will totally be born by then, BABY GIRL AWESOMESAUCE! May every year after this one, up to a million billion more, plus one for luck, be filled with love and romance and laughter and fun! *smooch*

DEATH-COUPAGE

So remember last week I told you about how I laughed to tears about how I imagined that one of my actors was sitting at home making up a death-book for celebrities? In case you were wondering how awesome my actors are (I don’t think anyone’s sitting around wondering these things, but you never know, someone MIGHT be), the very next day, the same actor that I’d been imagining that about came in with his hands behind his back. “I have something for you, to thank you for all your hard work this week,” he said. And he pulled out A DEATH COLLAGE. He and his awesome wife, who told him about my giggle fit, complete with tears, about imagining him collaging celebrity deaths, made up a fake scrapbook page for Whitney Houston’s death. It’s totally not as morbid as it sounds. OK, yeah, it is. But ALSO AWESOME. It’s on pink paper and has the article from the paper and “our angel” and “we will always love you” and I laughed so hard I almost died. I would totally have tried to get a photo of it but it’s too big to take a photo of and also I think people might start getting the wrong idea that I like hated Whitney Houston or something, which I totally didn’t. WHITNEY HOUSTON IS NOT THE POINT. The point is, my giggle fit made death-coupaging a REALITY. This is why I love theater people: they get my insane and morbid sense of humor, and they do it one better. Because they are AMAZING. And their brains don’t work like regular people. Much like mine doesn’t. And this makes me so, so happy.

Happy Saturday, all! I hope your weekend is filled with Cheetos and also alcoholic beverages. I mean, everyone wants those things, right? If you live locally, COME SEE MY SHOW. If you do not, I WISH YOU DID. No, no. NOT YOU DING-DONG JOE. You can stay right where you are. Doing…whatever it is you’re doing there. Ew.


An Open Letter to the Ass-Douche Who Either Hit and Ran or Vandalized My Car on Valentine’s Day

Dearest Human Piece of Shit:

Happy Valentine’s Day!

I know, I know. It’s two days late. I’m so sorry. And you left me the MOST AWESOME ANONYMOUS GIFT EVER. And I can’t even be bothered to return the favor in a timely fashion? Where are my effing MANNERS, am I right? I am the WORST.

I know it’s no excuse, but I have been a little busy, what with dealing with the insurance agency, the garage, my father screaming at me for going to a dangerous part of town in the middle of the night and why the hell did I have to move to a big city ANYWAY, getting time off work for auto repair, etc. Little things I should have said and done, I just never took the time, you waste of space, but please, please know, you were always on my mind. YOU WERE ALWAYS ON MY MIND.

I can’t even thank you enough, really. I mean, until I saw your totally awesome and anonymous gift, I was hoping for nothing more than the opportunity to get home in time to watch Justified, because the closest I was going to get to a date on Valentine’s Day was to watch Raylan kick a little ass down in Harlan County, you know? It had been a long couple of days. Hell, it’s been a long week, what with my show opening, tech week, auditions. I was tired. I wanted a couple of popsicles, Dumbcat, Raylan, his hat, and his gun. Maybe a scene of him shirtless, that’d be nice. I’d never object to that, not even on my deathbed.

But as I unlocked my car, I thought, “Huh, this is…huh.” Because where my driver’s side-view mirror was when I parked the car a few hours ago, there was a dangling thing that LOOKED like it USED to be my mirror. And the shiny thing I’d walked past in the street? Well, that shiny thing was mine. My mirror. From inside of the housing. That was now dangling down from the side of the car, swaying ever-so-slightly in the evening breeze.

Better than a box of candy or a dozen roses, am I right? Who wants the cliche when you can have THIS KIND OF MAGIC.

Now, luckily, I was at the theater, where we have all types of tape, and even more luckily still, our technical director was there with me. Because he was able to tape it securely to my door frame so that when I drove home (way too fast, let’s be honest, I tend to drive fast normally, add to that how overjoyed I was that someone CARED! about LITTLE OLD ME! On VALENTINE’S DAY! Enough to DAMAGE THE ONLY EXPENSIVE THING I OWN! and be LACKING IN BALLS ENOUGH NOT TO LEAVE A NOTE! and I was guaranteed to be hitting speeds of at least 80 on the highway on the way home) it wouldn’t bang and crash against my door and cause MORE damage. Because you wouldn’t want that, now would you, Douchey McDouchebag? No. I can’t imagine you would, right? WHO WOULD WANT TO CAUSE A COMPLETE STRANGER AGITA. And can I just add, there is NOTHING CLASSIER than having parts of your car taped on with black tape? NOTHING.

Then, THEN! I mean, think of the first-time things I got to do, my darling, my sweet, my LIGHT, my LOVE! I got to call the Gecko and explain that I’d either been hit-and-ran or vandalized! And should I call the cops? I had never been in a situation like this! I did not know the protocol! I mean, you were opening up NEW DOORS for me, my most precious piece of rotting boar offal!

The insurance company said that probably it was only worth calling the police if there were “security cameras in the area.” After I laughed until I almost choked to death and explained that no, no security cameras were in effect – (I think my exact words were, “You’re not from AROUND here, are you? We’re a COMMUNITY THEATER GROUP. We can’t afford KLEENEX some days. I think a SECURITY CAMERA and MONITORING OF IT might be out of our price range.”) and LISTEN, the insurance company didn’t even care that there was a piece of plastic in the road that may or may not be a clue! I don’t know if you left that, light of my life, but all I know is, that plastic wasn’t there when I got to the theater, and when I left, my mirror was hanging and that plastic was right by the glass you oh-so-considerately knocked out of my mirror because I wouldn’t be needing that, anyway, what if I cut myself? YOU ARE SO THOUGHTFUL OF MY SAFETY. That plastic? A clue. I HAD A CLUE. But the Gecko didn’t care and told me the cops probably wouldn’t, either. (I even said, “I know, I shouldn’t have picked it up, what if they want to dust for fingerprints?” The Gecko was not amused. Also, the Gecko sounded like a woman from Buffalo. I feel like maybe I’ve been misled by my insurance agency mascot. Is it too much to ask to have the Gecko answer the phone when I call? What, he was too busy making commercials or something?)

So, taped-up and with an incident report in place with the Gecko who was not a Gecko, and an hour late, meaning NO JUSTIFIED, and realizing that, no matter what happened, I would be paying money OUT OF MY OWN POCKET for this thing called a “deductible” because even though – EVEN THOUGH! – I pay about $100 a month for insurance, I STILL have to meet this “deductible” for auto repairs, EVEN IF I DID NOTHING WRONG – I was ready to head home. This deductible was in place even if I was parked, completely legally, and running auditions, all nice and safe and sound in my theater, being all official and theatery. Yes, I realize most people probably already know this. I’ve never been in an accident. Well, no, that’s not true. I was, once. A fender bender. And I was a deadbeat then and didn’t have car insurance. And neither did the guy I hit. So we shook hands and decided not to report it. Because who would we report it to? Imaginary police? Imaginary insurance agents? We were a couple of damn dirty hippie deadbeats.

SO! I am now down money that I was SAVING FOR AN EFFING LAPTOP to make repairs on my car that I did NOT NEED TO MAKE until you, you absolute PEACH of a human being, decided to either hit (unlikely) or vandalize (more likely) my car. On Valentine’s Day. Because if it WAS an accident, that mirror would have been in a completely different place than it landed, and there would have been a lot more body damage, I think. SHUT UP. I totally watch Criminal Minds and Castle. I know how to recreate a crime scene. Dr. Spencer Reid and Captain Tightpants taught me.

OH! And the garage can’t get the part in the color my car comes in? So until I can get home and my brother, who does detailing and body work, can paint it? My side-view mirror IS NOT GOING TO BE THE SAME COLOR AS THE REST OF THE CAR. So I’m going to have Frankencar. Yes! I am going to be the CLASSIEST BITCH IN ALL THE LAND. Please knock out my taillights next; I’d like to cover them with masking tape I’ve scribbled over with a red magic marker. To really class up my joint, you know?

Now, here’s my question. Did something about my car scream “this is a rich person so she can totally afford repairs and also THIS IS THE MAN, LET’S TEACH THE MAN A LESSON?” If so, my car was lying to you. My car is almost ten years old; it’s covered in scratches, little dings, bangs, and bumps, the air conditioning has never worked, it didn’t even COME with a CD player INSTALLED (and I sure as hell can’t afford to get one installed), and sometimes the “your airbags aren’t working” light randomly decides to come on for no reason I can ascertain. Also, I hit curbs a lot (shut up, I’m distracty and also have a lack of spatial relations), so the front license plate is all crooked and bent. If that car seemed to you to be totally the car of a privileged person? Well. Maybe you need glasses? I don’t know what to tell you about that. IT’S A TAURUS. Ford Taurus = the patron car of low-to-middle-class America, my darlin’ Thugentine.

Also, on the topic of rich people: no one that’s rehearsing over at that theater is overly rich. Have you not learned that by breaking into our cars? I mean, you’ve broken into enough of them to know. The most you ever find is Kleenex, pennies, and gum. In mine, you won’t even find the pennies. Or even the gum. (You will, however, find cassette tapes, because sometimes I like to listen to music from the PAST and ROCK IT OLD SCHOOL.) I spent those pennies ages ago, and I can’t even CHEW gum, I have TMJ. And what did I spend those pennies on? Frivolous purchases? Like laces and fancy silks and hats for Derby Day? NO. I SPENT THEM ON FOOD. Listen, there are weeks I’ve survived on popcorn and eggs and canned tuna, buddy. These weeks? WERE IN THIS DECADE. I am not a rich person. You deciding to either hit and run or vandalize my car means that, in order to pass inspection, which is due in two weeks, I have to get that mirror replaced: and that costs me AN ENTIRE SHIFT AT MY SECOND JOB. Yes! I have a SECOND job. Because my first job doesn’t pay me enough to survive on. So thank you! Thank you for that. Yes, I do have the money? Because I’ve been saving every single penny for a laptop because my ten-year-old computer’s about to give me a “this does not compute” message and belch out black smoke and die ANY MINUTE NOW, all cartoon-style? That’s not the point, though. That money was not FOR extraneous car repairs. That money was for a LAPTOP. So I can BLOG. Without the computer FREEZING every FIVE FRIGGING MINUTES. Like a CHAMP. Like a BOSS.

Were you trying to get my attention? Is that it? Was this your pull-the-pigtails-of-the-girl-you-have-a-crush-on maneuver? Or, even better, were you bored? Either way, was this entertainment for you? If so, bra-friggin-vo. Stellar work, sir, or ma’am, just stellar. I hope from your Peeping Tom or Thomasina tree branch you could see me mentally waving goodbye to almost a fifth of the money I have saved up; money that’s taken me a very long time to save. And I hope you had fun, either smashing into my car and driving away or hitting it with a baseball bat like this is a teen romp and you’re getting initiated into a gang, I really do. I mean, I work at a theater, and we do so like to entertain the unwashed masses. If effing up my car did that for you, MY WORK IS DONE HERE.

I do have to thank you; I’ve gained a new pen pal from this experience. My new friend, the “thank you for contacting us here at the Albany Police Department” bot, and I are VERY HAPPY TOGETHER. I’m sure the bot was so pleased to get my email this morning pleading with it to have a cop or two patrol the area now and then in the evenings, as it’s become dangerous to park there. I mean, three people in the past six months who work at my theater have had to get car repairs. But I’m sure that’s not ALL you, my favorite Valentine, right? I’m SPECIAL. That vandalism and/or hit and run? That was ALL FOR ME. Right? Right. I’m one special beloved Valentine snowflake, I am.

So, my sweetest dear, I do so thank you for thinking of me. I’d very much like to return the favor. Please leave your car parked outside the theater on Friday evening, around 11pm, and just turn away for 15-20 minutes. It’s all I ask. I’ve been dying to try out my Office Space-gleaned destroying a printer moves on something; your car would be the perfect target, I think. I don’t have a baseball bat, but we do have plenty of Alice’s Restaurant-esque shovels and rakes and implements of destruction hanging around, including a couple of sweet swords and some old televisions and typewriters that I’d love to drop from our second story windows onto your car. I mean, we have props. Don’t you worry about the PROPS. We are prepared, props-wise.

My love for you knows no bounds. I certainly hope you know that. I mean, if not for you, not a SINGLE PERSON would have thought of me on Valentine’s Day. Thank you, sir or ma’am, thank YOU, for making me feel remembered on that day of all days.

My very best to you, sir or ma’am. Your momma should be proud, bringing up such a stellar example of personhood. You deserve a medal. Hell, you deserve an effing coronation.

(The kind of coronation that Khal Drogo gave Viserys Targaryen in A Game of Thrones? Yes. That’ll do, pig.)

With much love, admiration, and just the teeniest added if I ever see your face, you can be sure I’ll claw your eyes out with my super-fancy-painted fingernails that are all chipping off because I CAN’T AFFORD MORE NAILPOLISH YOU PIECE OF DOGSHIT,

Amy.


Benedict Cumberbatch could solve these mysteries in like five seconds. Where IS he when I need him?

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?

MISSING. If found, please call AMY'S DAD.

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.)

Dad’s theories:

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.

Heh.

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:

The top part unscrews; the bottom part is attached to the bar.

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.

"It is beyond my capability for reason - which is immense - that someone has not snapped Amy up by now. Utterly inconceivable."


Lost and Gone Forever: In Which I Totally Solve a Historic Serial Killing

A life cut short by a 19th-century SOCIOPATH.

I was thinking today about childhood. Specifically, about the morbidity of children’s tunes. Does this at all make you wonder how my mind works? Here. I’ll give you a little comparison, you know, for funsies.

Normal person’s mind:

Hears “Oh, My Darling Clementine” – thinks, “aw, cute!” – continues on with his or her day.

My mind:

Hears “Oh, My Darling Clementine” – thinks, “man, but do I hate citrus fruit” – thinks “but Clementine is certainly a fantastic name for a child” – thinks, “wait, ‘lost and gone forever,’ that’s totally dark, let’s look up the lyrics to that and analyze them and figure out what the hell’s going on here”

I’m not passing judgment on either mind. Just saying, there’s normal, then there’s shiny, ADD, and possibly a little crazy, that’s all.

OK, so “Oh, My Darling Clementine.”  You think you know this song? HOLY HELL but there are a shitload of verses. YES I researched this, you thought I wouldn’t? Shame on you.

You can totally sing along, if you want. I won't judge.

In a cavern, in a canyon,
Excavating for a mine
Dwelt a miner forty niner,
And his daughter Clementine.

OK, so far, so good. We have a miner and his daughter, Clementine. No problems. Cool cool cool.

Chorus:

Oh my darling, oh my darling,
Oh my darling, Clementine!
Thou art lost and gone forever
Dreadful sorry, Clementine.

Well! Now we have some foreshadowing. OBVIOUSLY something bad’s about to happen to Clementine, whom we have just met, like, twenty SECONDS ago. And we know the singer loved her. Also, “lost and gone forever” is really, really dark. But also really poetic, and I love it a little. Also, were you aware that Clementine, the character in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, was so named because of this very line in this very song? Because the procedure would, hypothetically, make her lost and gone forever to Jim Carrey’s character? Isn’t that lovely? I thought so. Also, so the woman you love dies, and all you can muster is “dreadful sorry?” You seem like a shitty suitor, sir. And possibly a sociopath.

Also. ALSO. Why are you singing kind of a boppy-ish song about a dead girl? It’s not even dirge-like. It’s catchy. Worrisome.

Light she was and like a fairy,
And her shoes were number nine
Herring boxes, without topses,
Sandals were for Clementine.  

I like that she was light like a fairy, but also had what were, apparently back in the day (this was written in the late 1800s) HUGE HONKING FEET. I always liked this stanza, because those feet seemed so gigantic, and boxes “without topses” (hee! cute, and a nice way to do a slant rhyme!) as shoes was a funny visual. Karma, who did not like me laughing at imaginary women, gave me size nine feet once I finished growing. THEY’RE NOT THAT BIG SHUT UP.

Chorus

Drove she ducklings to the water
Ev’ry morning just at nine,
Hit her foot against a splinter,
Fell into the foaming brine.

So…the miners had ducklings? That they…herded? People herded ducklings? That seems silly. And virtually impossible, honestly. Like herding cats. Why didn’t they just KEEP them down by the water? Hmm. Also, ducklings are small, you couldn’t stick them in a burlap bag or something for your walk down to the water? And why at nine? Why such a rigid schedule for duckling-herding? “JUST at nine.” What would happen if she herded at 9:15? Like, would a meteor crash to earth or something?

Then she hit one of her gigantic honking feet against a “splinter” (yeah, I don’t know) and fell into the water. It’s “foaming brine.” So you were putting your ducklings into an oceanic waterfall pool or something? This duckling plan seems very ill-thought-out, Clementine.

Chorus

Ruby lips above the water,
Blowing bubbles, soft and fine,
But, alas, I was no swimmer,
So I lost my Clementine. 

So here she is, only her lips above the water, apparently with that lipstick on them that stays on NO MATTER WHAT YOU EAT OR DRINK (bee tee dubs, that stuff dries out your lips like a mofo, no joke, and always gets in the little cracks in your lips so you look deranged, stick to Dr. Pepper Lipsmackers, just a tip from me to you, and hey, Bonne Bell, I’ll gladly take any free product you want to send my way and review it GLOWINGLY here, just saying, I’ll whore myself for some Lipsmackers, anytime, anyplace!) and she was “blowing bubbles soft and fine” but lover boy can’t swim so she drowns. OK, so he has time to observe all the minutiae of her dying – her lips, her bubble-blowing, etc. – but he can’t call for help? He can’t scream, “CLEMENTINE IS DROWNING!” He can’t throw her a branch or a rope? Weren’t there other miners? I highly doubt the whole mining operation was run by Clementine and her dad. THIS IS THE WORST BOYFRIEND EVER. And also most definitely a sociopath, who likes to watch people suffer and die.

And he keeps singing his cheerful death-ditty. As sociopaths do.

Chorus

Then this stanza happens. Now, Wikipedia tells me that this stanza is often left out, because it is “morally questionable.” I think that’s the least of our concerns here, Wikipedia. This dude let Clementine drown while he observed her death throes. SOCIO-EFFING-PATH. I think you might want to check his fridge for missing women’s body parts. Or whatever they had back then. Icebox, maybe?

How I missed her! How I missed her,
How I missed my Clementine,
But I kissed her little sister,
I forgot my Clementine.

WHAT? Yeah, it’s not so much “morally questionable” as it is “you are a gross creepy creeper.” Why are you obsessed with the Clementine family? So, you watched Clementine drown, while standing on the bank ankle-deep in ducklings, and then you were all, eh, whatevs, bored now, and you wandered off, and then you were like, “NEEDS ME SOME LOVIN’” so you went and macked on her little sister Tangerine? And how old, exactly, IS Tangerine? YOU ARE GROSS.

Where is Clementine’s dad in all of this? I think he’d put his miner 49er foot down and be all, “I’m pretty sure you could have saved my other daughter, gross creepy creeper, so how about you get away from my other fruit-named daughter, I’ve promised her to a suitor WHO TOTALLY CAN SWIM, sheesh. And is not a SERIAL KILLER OF LADIES.”

Now, in place of the gross “I totally humped her little sis on her grave when the ground was still soft” stanza, Wikipedia said these can be used as alternate lyrics, THANKS FOR THE PERMISSION WIKIPEDIA:

Then the miner forty-niner
He began to weep and pine
For his darling little daughter
Now he’s with his Clementine

So apparently in this alternate lyric, her dad died of…sadness? I guess? Whatever, that’s depressing, I hate that.

In a corner of the churchyard,
Where the myrtle boughs entwine,
Grow the roses in their poses,
Fertilized by Clementine.

EW. This gross suitor. Of COURSE he would think of the flowers being fertilized by Clementine. I’m pretty sure he has a box of “souvenirs” under his bunk. He seems like the type. GROSS. Also, “grow the roses in their poses?” Roses POSE?Are the roses contestants on America’s Next Top Model? Is Tyra going to tell them to smize?

Then the miner forty niner,
He began to peak and pine,
Thought he oughta join his daughter
Now he’s with his Clementine.

I assume in this one, the dad committed suicide. Or that’s what the unnamed suitor wants you to think. I’m pretty sure the suitor killed him and then made it LOOK like a suicide. I mean, there was no CSI then. Who would know? This guy was totally a serial killer and then WROTE SONGS ABOUT IT. I just solved a little-over-125-year-old serial killing. THIS IS VERY EXCITING. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I didn’t even think this post was going this way when I started it. Who thought they’d make a huge difference in the world today? Not this lady, that’s who. I should totally be invited to join Dr. Spencer Reid’s team any…minute…now.

And, AND, how better to cover up a total double psychomurder than to act like you’re totally sad and start singing a song about “oh, boo hoo, my DARLING Clementine, I LOVED HER SO” and then all the ladies in their old-timey hoopskirts and whatever would be all “he’s so TORTURED and so EMO” and then you’d totally get away with – yeah, I’m going to say it – MURDER plus get all the old-timey clandestine love action. This guy had a PLAN, you guys. This guy was SLY.

Also, when poking around online like a total weirdo with nothing better to do, I found this:

You can see that subtitle under the band name, right? CLICK IF YOU CAN'T. It's important.

So this band, NAMED My Darling Clementine, has an album called “How Do You Plead?” This is TOTALLY a clue. KILLERS ARE THE ONES WHO PLEAD. That points me DIRECTLY to the fact that Clementine’s suitor is a serial killer. I cracked this case so wide open you could drive an effing SEMI through it, yo.

In my dreams she still doth haunt me,
Robed in garments soaked in brine.
Though in life I used to hug her,
Now she’s dead, I’ll draw the line.

THIS ONE IS MY FAVORITE. Because the GHOST of Clementine is totally haunting the suitor/killer’s dreams. With her reeking, soaking garments. LOVE THIS. I wish she’d eat his face off with her snaggly dead teeth and be all, “Clementine wants to play WICHOOOOOO” like this was the Pet Sematery of the Gold Rush. I WOULD TOTALLY DIG THAT ENDING.

So, as you can see, I am the best serial killer profiler ever. Now, I can hear you there, saying, “Um, Amy, you ARE aware this song is FICTIONAL and that you didn’t really solve anything and…um…I think you might be losing…your…mind…” and to YOU I SAY, you can just BITE ME. I am the BEST AT THIS. Clementine is now AVENGED. As is her father, who we KNOW did not commit suicide. I just regret that I was too late to save poor orphaned Tangerine. If you have any other centuries-old mysteries you’d like me to solve, please send me a proposal. I’m probably going to be inundated so you might have to wait. I’ll get back to you. Eventually. I’ll be in pretty high demand. Don’t worry. I’ll remember you all once I’m totally the most famous. Dr. Spencer Reid and I will be very happy? So I’m sure I’ll be very, very busy? But I won’t forget you. TOTAL PINKIE SWEAR.


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