Friday, May 03, 2019

Crime (on my mind) & Time (on my hands)

It's almost time for my weekly injection. I've been playing fast and loose with my health and skipping shots. That's not good so I'm going to stay on schedule for a while. One of the reasons I hate my injections is that, even when they don't have me feeling sick and nasty, they zap every bit of energy from my body. I usually just spend time on the couch watching TV. Sometimes I just plug in the earphones and catch up on the podcasts I bookmark. And, of course, because I am a big scaredy cat with an overactive imagination, true crime is my favorite genre of podcasts. This is why I boobytrap the windows when I leave them open at night. This is why I almost had a heart attack when I woke up in the middle of the night for a potty run and saw this:

Of course, I had to Instagram my scare

I thought for sure a tiny serial-killer goblin had come to get me. (By the way, I also listen to eerie, weirdy, and slightly paranormal podcasts.) Mainly though, I listen to crime-focused stuff. People gone missing without a trace, spouse-killers, monsters who masquerade as the nicest persons ever.

What does it say about me as a human being that I enjoy hearing about the unspeakable things that happen to some other people? Thankfully, I can say that I don't get off on this kind of thing. Mainly, I'm just nosey and interested in the details of crazy crimes. When I say that I'm nosey, I don't mean that I openly get all up into people's business. I'm shame-facedly, sneakily, and pathetically nosey. Like a Gladys Kravitz, peeking through blinds when I hear a commotion on the street or suctioning my ear to the walls if I hear an argument. So, yeah, I think I like being able to belatedly rubberneck at the scenes of horrific or mysterious happenings.

Anyway, the last time I was listening to or watching a crime show, I noticed how often the victims are so deeply loved and venerated. (I have to pause and tell you how good it feels that I didn't have to stop and think of how to properly use the word 'venerated'. My sarc is in time-out for real today!)

No matter how human and flawed a victim is, you mostly hear from their friends and family about how sweet they were or how they always just lit up any room. That's great but I know that if I ever end up on a milk carton (if that is still a thing), my family is going to say all of that too - but they will be thinking of a few other descriptions they won't be able to say out loud.

I'm such a hermit crab that, if not for my best friend who I talk with all the time, I could go missing for a good two weeks before anyone else noticed. This is no one's fault but my own. I have a clear view of any visitors about to enter this building and I have sat right here and not answered when my door. Depends on how I am feeling. I've been like this for so long that most people who know me would not be surprised to know that I ignored them. I just have to be in the mood for company...

My best friend and I have talked about the whole missing person scenario. She's decided that if she came up missing, her family would assume she was just on a really long shopping excursion. (It's true. She has fabulous taste and loves hunting down new "pretties".) Her family and I would probably tell the world about her generosity and warmth. I might have to tell though about the time she spent 3 months trying to find just the right lamp to go with her living room furniture and ended up just having one made. 

I'm sure that at my memorial, people will stand in front of everyone to say al they right things about my love of the children in our family. They might even be able to tell some really funny stories about my phobias. Then, when they go home for the private family-only memorial... Oh boy. If my sister were here, she would talk about the time I got drunk and danced so hard at the club that I was sore for the next week. Or she might talk about how when I was young, I got mad at her and razored some of her favorite clothes right down the seams. Yeah, that really happened.

My oldest brother, if he were still here, would likely talk about what a horrible cook I was up until after I turned fifty. At one of our family dinners, he was really enjoying a dish made with pinto beans and ground beef. He kept talking about how he'd be damned if it didn't taste just like Mama's had. When someone told him that I had made that dish, he looked them dead in the face and swore they were lying.

What I am trying to say is that I wouldn't want anyone broadcasting what my family might say in private about the Trudy they had known and loved.

Public memorials are not the place to criticize anyone. Just like with flowers, they should only be given to the living when they could have made a difference. My mother used to say that flowers to the dead are usually just guilt offerings for the living.

I suppose that everyone has public vs private remembrances of loved ones who had tragic endings. Maybe the families and friends of those people keep the true - and funniest, real-ist, and bestest - delicate memories to themselves. Maybe that's the way it should be. Someone, please remind my family of this if I ever go missing.