The Case of the Blue Bedspread
Alright, Pearl, find a duvet cover, and let’s get outta here. This store smells like a cinnamon candle farted in my face. Why are we redoing the guestroom, anyway? The grandkids won’t look up from their phones long enough to notice.
Yeah, sure, that one looks good. Let’s go. No no, I’m not just saying that to leave. You’re right, that is the perfect duvet for our guestroom. It's the same blue as the drapes. It's got the same pink as the guest towels. And, the flowers on it are mums—just like the lamp. It's almost as if it was made for the room.
Although … huh. Wait just a minute. It’s perfect alright—a little too perfect.
Pearl, I am not being paranoid! You don't spend forty-seven years on the Jacksonville Police Force without learning when something smells fishy. This here's fishy. We go out looking for a bedspread, and BLAM! The first one we find is perfect. You learn to question these things.
Listen to me, something's not right here. You wouldn't believe the number of times Baker and I would go out on a call, and it would be just like this—set up to seem like everything had fallen into our laps. But, there was always someone behind it, pulling the strings.
Yes, Pearl, of course I want the kids to visit. This isn’t about dragging my feet on the guestroom. It’s about my detective instincts. I should have never retired, with these things still as sharp as they are.
So, with the bedspread, what do we have to go on? You were right about the colors being an exact match. Then, who has access to our guestroom to know its colors? Only your friend Dorothy. No, Dorothy's not smart enough for this kind of thing. Besides, I ran a background check on her after the cow creamer went missing.
Follow the money. Nine times out of ten, it’s about money. So, where does the money go? Who owns this store? Of course! Crazy Lenny. It’s the perfect cover for a criminal mastermind—everyone thinks he’s crazy. More like, Crazy-Like-a-Fox Lenny!
Pearl, where are you coming back from? What?! You bought the duvet cover? But, it’s trap, Pearl! You’ve put us right where they wanted us. And, matching pillows? Noooooo!!
Fine, but this means I get to buy that mini fridge for the den.
Me, The Trend Setter
So, guess what? Paunches are coming back in fashion. I guess it’s the pendulum swinging back from skinny jeans and fitted dress shirts. People are getting sick of the waif look.
Finally! I knew this would happen eventually. Remember how rain boots and summer scarves were big two years ago? Now, big bellies are the season’s must-have. I’m so glad I held onto mine.
It’s all about riding out the fads, y’know? First, it’s wide leg jeans; then it’s low rise jeans; then it’s capris; and on and on. You know what looks good? Straight leg jeans. Just stick with a good thing. Like a round little belly.
My wife has been nagging me for years to get rid of my paunch. She thought it looked outdated, and she constantly said I should walk over to the Salvation Army to get rid of it. Yeah, like I’m gonna walk two miles every day to the Salvation Army. It’s on top of a hill, for cripe’s sake.
She’s the one who made me give away my fedora from my swing dancing phase. Now, Mad Men is a hit, and I can’t show off my cool fedora. But, at least I held onto my paunch.
I first got this paunch way back in college. Looks the same as the day I noticed it in a vintage store. (I was trying on an awesome cowboy shirt, and I couldn’t get the buttons to snap. That’s when I noticed my belly in the mirror.) Anyway, I’ve kept this paunch ever since. I guess I’m a trend setter.
Seriously, I have pictures to prove it. Nearly every photo of my since undergrad has my paunch in it, even as other fashion trends came and went. There’s me with my paunch and boot-cut chinos. Then, there was that phase where I only wore hooded sweatshirts over my paunch. I even had it at my wedding, though you can barely see it poking out under my cummerbund.
I simply had faith that if I held onto my paunch long enough, it would come back into vogue. Now, when I go to a bar for my standard four beers and an order of onion rings, I see ladies staring at my roly poly belly. I know what they’re thinking. Sorry, ladies, I may be stylish, but I’m happily married.
Sure, some day my paunch my go out of fashion again, but it’ll come back around. Fashion is cyclical. Look at skinny ties or bellbottoms or hoop earrings. I just hope that giant, asymmetrical foreheads come back into style. Then, I’ll be all set.
Quick Tour Of Hell
Hello! Welcome to Hell. Let me give you folks a quick tour. Oh, I’m sorry, can you take off your shoes? Thanks. I know, it’s totally anal and gross, but we just prefer no shoes. There’s a mat over by the door.
Okay, so this is the front entryway. It’s filled with people who haven’t seen important movies yet. They’re constantly complaining about overhearing spoilers. Super annoying. So, we punish them by revealing the endings in code. Like, remember how in The Usual Suspects, Limpy McSourpuss goes all mug-breaky?
Then, this is the second circle. (Hell’s concentric circles, by the way. That was in vogue when we built it, but hanging pictures is a drag, and it’s way leaky when it rains.) This is all the people too into internet porn. What a cliché. We punish them with dial-up connections and malware.
Here’s the third circle. This is for the people who read New York Magazine or Travel and Leisure. We figured we’d put the lifestyle porn people next to the porn porn people. We don’t really torture these people, because they're already doing it, themselves.
Moving on, this next circle is where we put the old ladies in line at Walgreens. Y’know, the ones who try to use expired coupons for junk food? What we do is have one cashier who seems like she’s open, but she’s really just counting cash. So, the lines get all messed up, and then the old ladies fight it out over who was there first.
This fifth circle is for teenage girls. We try not to get involved with their punishment, because it’s not worth the screaming or, worse, the pouting. Essentially, though, it’s that there’s a really cool pool party going on somewhere that none of them got invited to.
Ooh, this is the Stygian Marsh. Next year this is all gonna be condos.
The sixth circle is for the people who don’t own a TV. We get it; you have more important things to do with your life than watch Lost. Shut up and don’t ruin things for everyone else. We cram them all into a tiny Starbucks with only one outlet for all their laptops. Try to finish writing your freelance articles now, assholes.
So, this is the seventh circle. This one’s my favorite. It’s for the gays. Not that being gay is a sin; that’s a total myth. There are tons of awesome homos in Heaven. This is just for the ones who think that being gay automatically makes you witty. Enough with the strained wordplay, already! The punishment here is that it’s a loud dinner party, where you have to keep repeating your lame, half-heard puns, thus taking all the fun out of it.
(We’re almost done, I promise. I know it’s huge, and if I had my choice, we’d downsize to a much smaller Hell. But, you just acquire so many souls when you’ve stayed in the same place this long.)
Then, this is the eighth circle. This is where all the state senators end up. So, this is where the majority of sins have been committed—pandering, hypocrisy, thievery, counterfeiting, sowing of discord—standard state politics. This circle is where we pull out all the classic torture stuff. I’d get into it, but it’s honestly pretty gross and flesh-rippy. Totally deserved, though.
Okay, the ninth circle. This is for this one girl, Beth, who totally pretended to be my friend in Junior High. (This was back in Heaven, before I fell from grace.) One day in line for lunch, she yells, “Hey, everybody, check this out!” And, she yanks down my pants. She pantsed me in front of the entire Heaven! I never lived that down. I think it might be why I eventually became so rebellious and ended up down here. Anyway, Beth is frozen up to her face in ice now, and sometimes I flick my boogers at her.
So, you’ve finally made it! Here’s the end of the tour. My bedroom. This is where the magic happens. I’m just kidding. Can I get you a Coke or water or anything? What do you want to do? We could fire up the Wii or play Bananagrams. I’m cool with whatever.
Re: Your Play
Dear Patrick,
I wanted to drop you a note to thank you for inviting an old lady like me to your play. I just had such a fun time coming into the city to see your show. Like I said at work, I had no idea we had a real, live star in our office.
Donna from accounting wanted to come with, but walking up six flights to a downtown loft wouldn’t be good for her hip. I called her afterward and told her you were terrific onstage. I really think you have a future in that, if you ever give up temping.
I do wish you would have warned me about the nudity. Not that I’m a prude or anything, but I brought along my nephew, Chet. He got bitten by the acting bug during his community college’s production of Lil’ Abner last fall. I thought it’d be good for him to see a real New York show, because he loves that Mama Mia movie so much. He can do every dance by heart.
Anyhoo, your performance was just terrific. I loved the music and the puppets and everything. I’ll admit I had a hard time following the plot at points. I still don’t understand why you had that rope tied so tight around your genitals for the second half. And, the bit where those other naked men hit you with pool noodles; if your character really was a time-travelling space angel, why wouldn’t you have just teleported away?
But, all in all, I thought it was real nice. Chet did, too. On the ride home, he couldn’t stop talking about the scene where you were lifting weights to prepare for your battle with the evil Space Soldiers. And, he thought the Moon Queen’s costume was gorgeous.
I’ll see you at the office on Monday. I hope this note finds you well, and that you were able to wash off all that glitter make-up. Chet asked me for your contact info to talk about acting and things, so I passed along your work email. I hope that was okay. I'm sure you two artistic types would have a ton to talk about.
Thanks again,
Meredith
Notes From The Inside
I found the most beautiful vase at a flea market this morning. The seller was asking $4000 for it, which is ridiculous. $4000 for mid-century stoneware? So, when he wasn’t looking, I climbed inside and hid.
It’s a big vase, about the size of a tall wine barrel. But, it’s surprisingly cramped in here, since it narrows at the bottom. I’m not sure what I expected to do once I got inside, but I've been working on listening to my instincts more. Maybe, I had some subconscious plan to wait until nightfall and steal it?
Anyway “best laid plans of mice and men,” because someone bought the vase about fifteen minutes ago. Now, I’m in the back of a delivery van headed towards Connecticut. (I might lose my iPhone signal at some point, so I’m sorry if I can’t finish this post.) I don’t know what to do.
Ideally, I could just jump out once we get wherever we’re going and yell, “Surprise!” But, here’s the thing, I think I recognized the voice of the buyer. It’s my ex-wife.
I know, right?!! What are the chances? But, then I started thinking about it, and of course we’d have the same taste in over-sized, stoneware vases. It’s what brought us together in the first place.
So, I think what I’m going to do is this: I’m going to pretend the vase is haunted. I mean, the acoustics in this thing are pretty creepy to begin with. And, I already know tons of trivia about my ex to make it convincing. A couple of whispered details about her grandmother should get this vase thrown out lickety-split.
Anyway, we’re about to go through the tunnel, so wish me luck.
Our Last Therapy Session
Doctor, I’ve been thinking, and I think maybe this should be our last session. I’d like to start working with a different therapist. No, don’t start crying. It’s nothing personal. Please stop.
It’s not that I think you’re a bad therapist; it’s just we never really clicked. For instance, I’m not used to being yelled at so much. And, when I talked about my claustrophobia, the chicken clucking sounds you made—I don’t think those were helpful.
No, it’s not an attack. I’m simply trying to give you some professional feedback. Like, with the role playing you had us try. When you asked me to pretend you were my father to work through my guilt; that was good. You did a great job with that. But, the next week, when you put on the French maid outfit and called me The Baron; that wasn’t so positive.
Hey, hey! There’s no need to swear. Like I said, this isn’t a referendum on you as a therapist. It’s about the two of us, as doctor and patient, not matching up. Partially because I’m not nearly as racist as you. I admit I laughed at a few of your jokes, but it was a nervous laughter. If I didn’t laugh, you tended to leave the room in a huff.
I think maybe a new therapist wouldn’t practice his stage hypnotism on me. Or, see what you did just now? I don’t think another therapist would have thrown his pen at my head. That’s just a guess.
I get why you’re upset. That’s perfectly reasonable. Remember how I got upset when you posted all those tweets about my anxiety-induced diarrhea? By the way, you should know that Twitter time stamps those things, so I know you’re tweeting during our sessions.
I should probably get going. I can see by your dry heaves that you’re getting more and more upset. I won’t ask for a referral on a new psychologist, because the job coach you recommended turned out to be a cult leader.
Goodbye, Doctor.
Yeah, sure, we can still be friends on Facebook. But, please stop sending me vacation photos of you in the sauna.
I’ve Stepped in It
Hey, can you do me a favor and look at the bottom of my shoe? Can you see if this is jelly I've stepped in? Just check and tell me if this is jelly or something else. I really hope it's jelly.
No no no, I know it's gross, but I appreciate the help, and it's probably jelly. Just take a quick peek. Maybe smell it and see if it smells sweet? I'd take off my shoe and do it myself, but whatever it is, it's gotten all over my laces, and I don't want to touch them. Just in case.
Please? I only worry because I was walking down near Union Square, where the gutter punks and meth heads hang out. So, it could be anything--jelly, jam, melted lollipop, ground beef, pigeon brains. That said, I'm sure it's probably jelly. Here, take a look. Get your nose right in there.
Oohhh, shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kick you in the face. I am so sorry. That was a total accident. Wow, that was clumsy.
And, now you’ve got jelly on your forehead. I hope it's jelly.
My Crew’s Dance Battle
My dance crew is having a mad huge dance battle this Saturday in some crunk old warehouse down on Pier 12. You all need to get there, ‘cause it’s set to be sick, yo. Maybe bring with you some cheese or a bottle of wine.
What all was that Reisling we had at your house warming party? That was scary grapefruity. Yo, you gotta bring that Reisling to my crew’s dance battle. They mad love Reisling.
We're up against the Phat Imposturz, and better believe we’re bringing it. Hard. Those punks best start prayin', ‘cause they're 'bout to get schooled.
Speaking of, how’s Dakota’s new Montessori school? I rolled by on my way to yoga, and that school is stupid beautiful, Son. That mural of the Earth and the Moon holding hands? Them shits is mad lovely. Yo, you gotta hit me up on whether or not they do peanut-free for my lil’ thug, Dashiell.
But, yo, you gotta come to my dance battle. It’s gonna be crazy! Everybody’s coming--Sweet Pete, Drrrty Munk, Leslie, Gail, Bernie from accounting, Mrs. Hawthorn, Tight Rydz. Son, I ain't seen Bernie from accounting in a minute! And, remember that little 'hood girl from down in payroll? Ruth Epstein? You know she’s gonna be there!
I tell you, Son, this Hip Hop/Jazz/Tap class at the YMCA is the best thing I’ve done since those pastry lessons back in the day. I can't wait for y'all to check my crew's dance battle/class recital.
Lost and Found
Hello? Lost and Found? Yeah, I'm calling because I think I lost something expensive at your hotel. Has anyone turned in something expensive?
Sure, I can describe it. The thing I lost was a … computer. Anyone turn in a laptop? No? Shoot, I must have lost that at another hotel. I stay at a lot of hotels. I’m an important business guy, and I lose stuff, because I get distracted by important business deals. I’m sure you understand.
What I lost at your hotel was a … wallet. No wait! It was a watch. Has anyone turned in a watch there? They have? Great!
Uh, yeah sure, I can be more detailed. It has a face and a wristband and numbers. It’s a man’s watch, but some people could think it was a woman’s watch, because it could look slender to some people. Although, others could think it looked very big and masculine. Color? Well, it’s kind of gold-ish platinum. In some light it looks gold, sometimes platinum.
It’s very sentimental to me, because it was my father-in-law’s. It might have an engraving on the back. At the same time, you might not be able to see the engraving, because it could be worn off. Oh, you can see an engraving? M.W.L.? Yes, those were my pappy-in-law’s initials. Milton Walter … La … La … Lobster. Yup, I know, weird last name. We called him Pappy Lobster. I loved him so much, and it was his dying wish that I get his watch from the war. That one war.
You found it? Terrific! I’ll be right over. As soon as the bus comes. Which hotel is this, by the way? I forgot.
Let’s Steal A Baby!
Honey, I’ve been thinking about it for awhile now, and I think we’re ready. We’ve been married for three years, and let’s face it; we’re not getting any younger. I think it’s time we steal a baby.
Let’s just do it. Our folks keep bugging us about grandkids, and maybe they’re right. Mike and Danielle, Ryan and Pauline, Ben and Jessica—they’ve all started families. It’s time we bite the bullet, steal a baby, and raise it as our own.
I know you’re worried about money and our careers. I’m only pulling so much in kiting checks, and you’re still getting the hang of rolling old men behind your strip club. But, who said you have to be absolutely 100% prepared before you can bring a child into your lives?
I think we’re in a good place, a place where we’re mature and emotionally ready to walk into a maternity ward and kidnap a cute little bundle of joy. I’ve already thought of a few names. If it’s a boy—Dillinger. If it’s not a boy—Rockstar. Or Lil’ Slugger. That was my grandmother’s name.
Listen, I love you, and I know you would make an incredibly nurturing mother/abductor. Remember the time that balloon of coke popped in my colon? You were so gentle and caring, and you had the maternal instincts to take me to that corrupt vet, Viggo. I’m sure he could recommend a good, corrupt pediatrician.
I don’t care what kind of baby we steal, as long as it had 10 fingers and 10 toes. And, if it comes already in its own car seat, that would be great, because those things are expensive.
What do you say, Honey? Are you ready to steal a baby with me?
I hope it has your nose.