"I'm not crazy. My mother had me tested."*

        I woke up from my nap this afternoon with the tune to Murder She Wrote in my head. That’s weird on a number of levels. For one, I didn’t realize I remembered the theme to Murder She Wrote. And even if I did, I would never tell anyone about it, except the four of you who read this. And two, I haven’t seen, watched or even heard a reference to that show in quite a serious number of years. Not because it wasn’t awesome. Who doesn’t love an elderly lady sleuth? But because WHO THE FUCK WATCHES MURDER SHE WROTE? (Wait, is there supposed to be a comma in there? Going to look it up…)

        Okay, I just imdb-ed Murder, She Wrote and yes, there is a comma. But who cares? Because get this: that show ran for 12 goddamn seasons!?! Wow. Angela Lansbury is set for life. (Wait. Is she still alive? Going to look it up…) Yes. She is, apparently. Even after completing 264 episodes of Murder, She Wrote.

Jessica Fletcher the spy.

        Sometimes I wish I were a detective. Only I’d call myself a gumshoe, because that sounds more conspiratorial. But let’s face it: not much ever happens to me because I’m constantly sitting around writing about Murder, She Wrote or other nonsensical and unimportant crap. Although, Jessica Fletcher was also a writer, so maybe this whole thing has some sort of symbolic significance. I woke up with the Murder, She Wrote theme in my head because I’m destined to be a spy who writes novels. Or a novelist who writes about spies? Is dream analysis still a thing? Because I could definitely get into that.

Jessica Fletcher the writer.

        I tried to study my GRE math today after coming to the conclusion that I had to start at the most basic level and read carefully and do the problems and pray to the gods of numbers that I would start remembering some fraction of something I learned in high school. I literally had to start at the very beginning in a chapter called “Basic Arithmetic.” So sad and dispiriting. What am I, Laura Ingalls Wilder? I only need to know reading, 'riting, and 'rithmatic so I can measure how much cow's milk fits in a bucket or how many acres I can plow before sundown? (That's so mean to Laura. She was a great writer and farmers aren't dumb. Oh god! Digging a hole!) Good news is, I’m apparently very good at simplifying fractions. Bad news is, I can’t read directions. Or add. What if I fail the GRE? I’m really nervous/depressed/caught in a hole (another hole!) of my own making that I can’t seem to claw my way out of. Out of which I can’t seem to claw my way? Prepositions are stupid and they belong at the end of the sentence. (Whoa—there’s a game changer, for ya).

        Writing makes me happy, even if it is this sort of nonsensical bullshit. It feels sort of Virginia Woolf-ish in that stream-of-consciousness way. But she killed herself, so what’s the lesson there? Why is it that in order to feel like a writer one must necessarily also feel like a crazy person or a depressive? That seems awful, but somehow true. 

     If you've gotten this far, I appreciate your readership. This has been an exercise. Only an exercise.

DISCLAIMER: I am not crazy. 

*Sheldon Cooper (Jim Parsons) on CBS's somehow underrated (despite being on CBS) Big Bang Theory.

"It's funny. Everywhere Murder-She-Wrote went, someone died. I don't know why anyone invited her to parties."*

   If I were to be extremely honest about the career I think I should pursue, I would admit that I want to be a “Private Eye.” I think it would be super awesome to spend my days trailing people around town and taking pictures of cheaters and liars and possible murderers with a long-distance zoom lens. I would occasionally get into scrapes with people wanting to know what the hell I was doing parked in front of their houses all night and sometimes I would be offered bribes to sell telling pictures of people caught in incriminating situations. Occasionally I would have to hide in bushes or nearly be caught in someone’s apartment, but I’d always get out of it just in the nick of time. I picture myself having a career a lot like Jessica Fletcher’s or Veronica Mars’: I’d just be hanging out at a party and someone would die and someone else would ask me to figure out who did it and then I’d solve the case and get some money or just write a best-seller about my experiences. And then, if this were real life, I’d probably be shot.

   And eventually everyone would come to see it as suspicious that I’m always at events where people die.

   I think I have all the skills necessary for spy work: I have an above-average interest in what everyone else is doing. I have a very suspicious mind. I often solve mysteries on TV shows and in movies before they tell you the answer. I think eavesdropping is delightful fun. I’m good at hiding. I’ve watched pretty much every episode of Veronica Mars, Monk, Matlock, Get Smart, Law and Order: SVU, Magnum: PI, The Comish, Alias, and Murder, She Wrote. I’ve seen lots of spy, crime and cop movies including, but not limited to: Charade, Naked Gun, Beverly Hills Cop, The Pink Panther, multiple James Bond and Mission Impossible movies and To Catch a Thief. If this isn’t enough to make me legit, I’ll watch more. I’m okay with that.

   I’m not sure if spy school exists, but I’m totally into that as well, provided it’s not too pricey or time consuming. If it’s okay with spy industry, I’d just like to go ahead and get started. I did briefly own a detective agency in the summer of ’89, shortly after reading Harriet the Spy, so I’m already somewhat experienced. I just need some cases.

   I already did a little sleuthing the other day. You know that you’re cut out to be a spy when cases just fall in your lap. This is The Case of the Mormons Entering the Shady Apartment Complex in Glendale.

 

It took me awhile to get my camera out, so they were more or less inside by the time I got the photo. But I wasn't planning to spy like I'd normally have been if I were on a case.

   Okay, so I am aware that there are some difficult aspects to the spy game. I would imagine that sometimes, waiting in a parked car all night can be boring. I can also easily see myself falling asleep after the first hour. I know that there is often danger when criminals are involved but I’m willing to carry a weapon. I’m even willing to learn how to use a weapon (hopefully the same one I plan to be carrying). I understand that fast food is bad for the figure, so I will pack snacks to avoid temptation. I don’t think it will be difficult for me to assume aliases because I learned how to act in college and I’m also really good at lying. As you can see, I’ve put some thought into this.

   I've also considered that 1. I may not be clever enough to be a spy. I don’t think I’d know how to trick people into giving me information or how I’d be able to break into random rooms full of filing cabinets to hunt for clues (I'm not totally sure where those rooms even are). And 2. I think maybe in a way I’m more concerned with being a spy on TV. I think I’d really like my own spy show. That way I could be clever and sneaky without having to have any idea what I’m doing and I’d get paid way more than actual spies probably do. Is the spy game lucrative?

   Here, I drew up some promotional materials for my show with different working titles (which you’ll notice are just riff on the titles of other shows). 

Spy show ideas. Mostly stolen.

   The fact that I've spent so much time on this goes a long way toward explaining why I'm failing at life.

 *The quote is from Georgia Engel's character, Mamie, on Hot in Cleveland. I'm not proud, but I really like that show (maybe because two former MTM ladies are on it. Mystery solved!).

"Now, I know what you're thinking."*

    I know I’ve mentioned that I like “spy” shows (it’s the little, old grandmother in my soul), but did I also mention that I particularly love “old” television? When I moved into my new apartment, I elected not to get cable. Not because of any great plan to do more reading or knitting or thinking, but because cable’s damn expensive and I’m steering this ship by myself now. And so I got Netflix again.

    Here’s my thing with Netflix: I really loved it for a while. I got that package where you could rent one DVD at a time and still have instant streaming all for $7.99 (which is a fancy way of saying “eight bucks.” I'm on to you, Netflix!). And so Netflix ran every video store in America into the ground. And then they DOUBLED their prices. They Walmart-ed us, if you will. But we were so in love with the price and the convenience that we allowed it to happen. Oh well.

    So I left Netflix, because at the time I did have cable, and I also realized that 90% of my queue was dedicated to lofty films that I’d never end up watching because they were depressing and devoted to themes that were way more important than what my brains can handle. Why did I think I’d ever watch Breaking the Waves or The Piano? I’m not saying they’re bad movies—I’ve been told they’re fantastic. I just would rather watch something more along the lines of Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure or Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? When I sit down for a movie, I like it to be funny and smart or dark or full of dick-and-fart jokes, or some sort of combination of all of these. I really don’t want to cry, reminisce about The Depression or The Holocaust, or be forced to sleep with one eye open. I guess I’m feeble-minded or weak-hearted.

    But as I said, I did get Netflix again (only instant stream this time) and now I watch all kinds of spy shows that I didn’t even know were wonderful. My parents introduced me to Get Smart, The Rockford Files, McMillan and Wife and Monk (and I’ve seen pretty much every episode of each of these) and my delightfully irreverent Grandma Millie, clued me in to Murder, She Wrote and Diagnosis Murder. But last night I introduced myself to my new crush: Tom Magnum. That is, I’m now thoroughly ensconced and in love with Magnum: P.I. And all 156 episodes are on Netflix! 

Magnum and the Ferrari.

    For those of you who’ve already discovered (or simply remember) the wonder of this amazing show, please bear with me or feel free to ignore this post. I feel as though my whole life I was walking around like a zombie, not knowing what I did and not caring. And now I can see things clearly. Magnum: P.I. is so good I don’t know how I ever lived without it.

    See, so Magnum used to be a member of the Naval Investigation Agency (Office of Naval Investigation in real life) and he realized when he was 33 that he’d never really been 23. He was sent to Vietnam in his early twenties and barely escaped with his life. But he did learn a badass military tactic or two hundred and decided that he’d quit the Navy and enjoy life putting his skills to use working as a private investigator in Hawaii.

    But what he does is, see, is he solves crimes and romances women and races his absentee landlord’s Ferrari and says funny things and looks sexy despite having jeans that go up to his nipples and the world’s most famous mustache. I’m looking at you: Tom Selleck. You are one of the most attractive men in the world. In my mind it will always be the 80’s. 

Magnum wearing one of his better ensembles.

    I’ll drop the subject here, but I want to just point out that now I have one more reason to never leave the house/living room/couch. This is both dangerous and sad. Friends, please write or call to make sure I am still alive, because I’m going to be holed up with Magnum (or Tommy, as I like to call him) for months.

*Tom Magnum says this quite a lot on Magnum: P.I. Isn't he witty and clever even without context?

"Ha ha woman, what you gonna do? You destroyed all the virtues that the Lord gave you."*

     Evil Woman Part III

     Okay, I know everyone was waiting for a continuation of the dramatic tale of my life with the psychotic wife of the old-fart rock star and their adorable little assholes (children) which I drone on and on about here and again here. Well, you're in luck. Because here it is!

      Again, these are the things I wrote feverishly in the night while the beasts were sleeping...

•  I woke up from a very good night’s sleep to the lilting sound of Sophie wailing in the next room. But luckily, it was 9:30 on the nose, so I gladly jumped out of bed and took her into Beth (after changing her diaper, of course).  I was so excited for my afternoon off I nearly peed myself. We of course had to pack up all of our stuff (which Beth neglected to mention until 5 minutes before I was scheduled to leave) for the staff to move it.

•  Did I mention we’re moving rooms? Yes apparently this suite isn’t good enough for us, and not just because of the construction noise from next door that Beth’s been bitching about for days. Now she “thinks” she saw a mouse in the suite, so she had engineering come up and seal off all the cabinets under the sinks and any open crevices between walls and cabinetry. According to Lucia this happens every time they travel. She said that Beth figures out a way to bitch to the staff and get a nicer room and free amenities on top of it. Case in point, the woman that has been taking care of us during our stay comped Beth a free massage and told us that we were being “real troopers” for putting up with such a horrible situation. The situation wasn’t horrible until we had to move and that certainly wasn’t the hotel’s fault. (And where's my free massage? Beth gets to sleep all night, unlike the rest of us.) Though I have to say they don’t clean the rooms with any regularity—I often end up having to call and ask for room service in all the rooms, not just the one or two they pick to clean each day. And Lucia’s pointed out that a lot of the fixtures have missing parts and I noticed a crack in the side of my shower. I know the building’s old, but it’s supposed to be a four-star hotel. I think. Billy says there was a murder here a couple weeks ago.

• Lucia had to sleep on the floor last night because she was fed up with the couch moving apart on her in the night. Beth’s solution? Let’s call for a rollaway bed! A better idea, in my humble opinion, would be to tell your fucking 3-year-old to sleep in his goddamn crib and let Lucia sleep in a bed. She’s got a horrible cold and hasn’t had a real bed in days.

• So I was free and I had every intention of checking out the exhibit at the Frick Collection, but when I got inside, after a meandering 20-minute walk through Central Park, I was pressed for time. And after standing behind a group of clueless, elderly, slow-moving tourists in the line, I decided to fuck the Frick and headed over to 77^th and Lexington to catch the 6 train to downtown. Then I switched to the L train and got off at Bedford Avenue to meet my buddy Billy in Williamsburg.

 

See? The Frick is really pretty. I just wish other people didn't want to go there.

• Williamsburg is adorable. Cute little shops and restaurants and young people everywhere--most of them “straight off the boat from Oberlin,” as Billy put it. We had coffee at a cute shop called El Beit and I filled him in on the disaster that is this work experience. He filled me in on the fact that he got laid off last week and that is the reason he was able to hang out on a Saturday. I felt bad for him, but at the moment I was mostly thinking of how much I’d give to be unemployed right then, instead of knowing I had to head back to prison in a few short hours.

El Beit. How cute.

• We walked over to a great vintage clothing shop called Beacon’s Closet and I bought a couple of things. But I was shopping too fast because I had to pee—and I don’t love the things I bought. Although this blue blazer I got is a Marc Jacobs original. Maybe I can sell it someday. Yeah, it’ll happen. Billy considered buying a green and brown striped sweater because he’s going to make a series of sweater movies and he thought this one would be perfect for a movie about Nightmare on Elm Street. He opted against it because he is, after all, unemployed. And crazy. But at least he’ll get some unemployment. I couldn’t qualify unless I stayed with the Stalin family for another 4 ½ months. No thank you.

• We grabbed lunch at a little Thai restaurant where Billy ran into some girl he knew from speed dating. He said he’d been reviewing speed dating for the magazine he's working for, but I have a feeling speed dating is something Billy would do even if he didn’t have to. We walked over and sat on the beach and looked across the water to the city. I felt so sad that I had to leave and go back over there. We had such a lovely afternoon.

See, there, I left it on a nice note. I'm not all darkness, see? See?

*Quote from Electric Light Orchestra's "Evil Woman."