“Somebody’s been here,” I thought as I dropped my bags to the floor. I had just wrapped up a 12-day traveling stint for work, and arrived home late at night. A chill ran through my spine as I turned and bolted my door.
From the glow of the entryway, I could see white paint all over my living room. On my couches. The coffee table. The hardwood floor. Not to mention there was underwear laying next the kitchen table. Alright, so that was mine. Back to the paint.
My mind was spinning a million miles an hour…who had a key? I threw back the curtains to my sliding patio door and was met by…well, my locked sliding patio door, fully intact, staring out into the moonlight. I whipped around, wondering if I was alone.
Something told me I wasn’t.
Dashing into my kitchen (well, it was more of a stumble-trip-slip-on-the-underwear-trick than a “dash” but…) I grabbed the fiercest weapon I could find. No, not my butcher knife. No, not my frying pan. But oh yes, my plastic broom with the broken handle. Holding it like a 5 foot baseball bat, I felt the adrenaline pumping through my arms. Killer, prepare to be swept, I thought.
Shimmying up the stairs to my loft, I let out a tribal Native American whooping sound, (I AM 1/16 Cherokee after all…confidant hair flip) swinging and sweeping wildly as a stack of paperwork went sailing through the air. “Awesome,” I muttered. “Not only do I have to kill someone tonight with a broomstick, I have to re-organize my expense reports.”
Leaving the mess for after my Victory Murder, I went back downstairs and proceeded to search the living room. The deck. The kitchen. The bathroom. My bedroom. My heart began to flip-flop a little harder, a little faster, and a little wilder as I saw that the door to the Spa Room was closed. In fact, I’m fairly certain my heart was beating to the rhythm of Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise”…and the familiar words from my youth gave me comfort as I took a deep, shaky breath, slowly reaching for the door handle.
Throwing open the door to the pitch dark room, the hallway light illuminated my shadow, which stretched across the Spa Room floor. I must admit, my shadow looked extremely threatening, large and menacing holding that broomstick that I flung around my body like numchucks. Yes, I just googled how to spell numchucks. (*also referred to nunchucks and nunchaku’s) After doing some freestyle ninja kicks and select moves from the Macarena (yes, I just googled how to spell Macarena), I paused long enough to throw on the light switch. As the room lit-up, so did my lung capacity as I let out a scream…
There, laying lifeless on my spare bed, was a DEAD BODY.
Let me assure you, it is extremely difficult to commit a Victory Murder when the victim is already DEAD. Wait…he WAS dead…wasn’t he? Inching closer very cautiously, I peered into the half-opened glassy eyes staring back at me, and I knew. I knew that I was officially in the presence of the deceased. Standing above him with tears pricking my eyes, everything started to fall into place…the paint all over my living room, his tragic ending…
At this point it was very, very late. I had been traveling for 12 days straight. I was exhausted, now both emotionally and physically. But I knew that the situation at hand was very, very serious, and required immediate action. With shaking hands, I did exactly what common sense told me to do…I wrote my To-Do list for the following day:
In hindsight, I realize that I shouldn’t have left that list sitting on the checkout counter at the Eye Doctor’s. The wide-eyed receptionist slowly backing away from me, and the cop cars that came squealing into the parking lot as I was driving away make a lot of sense now that I think about it. Mom, if something happens and I only get 1 phone call, please pick up…and don’t mention that time in the Taco John’s parking lot that the cop only gave me one phone call…that’s not going to work in my favor.
I bagged up the body and hauled it out to the dumpster by moonlight. If there’s one thing Hollywood has taught me, it’s that if you’re going to dispose of a dead body, do it by moonlight. Now all I’m left with is the remains of my feathered friend, who I presume snuck in via my fireplace while I was gone. My furnishings, which I initially thought were plastered with paint, are actually the droppings of a panicked bird who died tragically in my Spa Room one fateful day. Although Thanksgiving is months away, it was obvious from his trail that he celebrated with a feast shortly before a dark fall down that brick hole.
Perhaps his buddies pushed him in. Dare I say, Bird Bullies? Or was it a dare from the older, cooler birds? Was he tipsy from his Worm Feed just moments before? Or did the smells of my Aveda products wafting from the Spa Room lure him in? These are the things I wonder as I scrub my upholstery. These are the things that keep me laying awake at night. These are the things that I ponder as I pick up my kitchen, littered with broomsticks and underwear. And these are the things that lay heavy on my heart as I haul Dead Bodies to my dumpster.
Dear blogging friends, how I’ve missed you. It’s good to be back.