Mar. 19: Disturbing mysteries

I’m working through my list of 100 books everyone should read, and as I’ve mentioned before, I can’t remember where I found it (but if you’re the least bit interested, it’s got a lot of the same books as the BBC list everyone’s been passing around Facebook). Sorry.

Some choices have been more entertaining than others, that’s for sure. It took me a long time to get through The Blind Assassin (not on the BBC list), and I felt worn out when I finally finished it. After that I enjoyed some lighter books and then tackled The Cider House Rules. Heavy, but oh-so-thought-provoking. Next came Atonement. Ugh. Atonement was even more frustrating than Assassin because not only was it slow-moving, it was boring as hell. I’m sorry; I don’t care how neat0 an heirloom vase is, it cannot possibly merit three pages’ description.

I took a break from the list and picked up something I knew I could truly savor: David Sedaris. Last week I re-read Me Talk Pretty One Day, and right now I’m halfway through Naked. Typically I prefer not to read the same author for two books in a row, but Sedaris is an exception because OH MY GODDESS, he is just the best.

Last night I read a couple chapters before bed and started laughing so hard I almost threw up. What was so funny, you ask? Just another tale from the Sedaris family. I tried to read it to Victor and he couldn’t understand a word because I was laughing and crying and coughing and gagging, and he just stared at me like I was a moron. Have you ever done that? Laughed so hard you thought you’d die (in a good way) and the person with you isn’t even cracking a smile? It’s kind of embarrassing.

So I’m taking a chance here, but I simply have to share. Hopefully your reaction will involve a little more than staring and no new tick marks in the “reasons to divorce Jen” column of that spreadsheet I know you’re always updating. Here goes:

[Mom and sister Lisa loved to study the newspaper and use the tricks they’d learned on detective shows to try to solve local crimes. They thought they were quite good at it.]

It was one thing to sit in front of the television second-guessing a third-rate detective program, but quite another to solve a real case. We were well into the summer reruns when our household was shaken by a series of very real crimes no TV detective could ever hope to crack. Someone in our family had taken to wiping his or her ass on the bath towels. What made this exceptionally disturbing was that all our towels were fudge-colored. You’d be drying your hair when, too late, you noticed an unmistakable odor on your hands, head, and face. If nothing else, life in the suburbs promised that you might go from day to day without finding shit in your hair. This sudden turn of events tested our resolve to the core, leaving us to wonder who we were and where we, as a people, had gone wrong. Soul-searching aside, it also called for plenty of hot water, gallons of shampoo, steel wool, industrial scrub brushes, and blocks of harsh deodorizing soap. The criminal hit all three bathrooms, pausing just long enough to convince the rest of us that it was finally safe to let down our guard. I might spend twenty minutes carefully sniffing the towel only to discover that this time the asshole had used the washcloth.

“Well,” my mother said, thumbing through the newspaper one Sunday morning, “the person doing this is one sick individual, that much we know for certain.”

“And they eat corn,” Lisa added, patting her head with a T-shirt. The most recent victim, she had washed her hair so many times it now resembled the wiry, synthetic mane of a troll doll.

Everybody had their theories but nobody had any hard evidence. Discounting my parents, that still left six children and my grandmother, all possible suspects. I eliminated myself, and because the towels were carefully folded, I excused my brother, who to this day cannot manage such a complex activity. It must smart to use a towel for such a delicate purpose. I watched as my family took their seats at the table, waiting for someone to cry out or flinch, but nothing came of it.

My mother and sister had always thought themselves so wily and smart, but when pressed for a suspect, they said only that this case was beneath them. If someone were to be murdered or kidnapped, they’d rise to the occasion and finger the guilty party within an hour. This particular case fell under the category of “aggravated mischief” and was therefore unworthy of their professional attention. Whoever it was would listen to their conscience and confess sooner or later. In the meantime, my mother would stock the linen closet with white towels. Case closed.

You’re probably not even chuckling, are you? Well, fine. You have permission to bite my big white butt. Get in line behind Victor.

Granted, my extreme enjoyment of this anecdote last night may have been a teensy bit influenced by the frosty greenish beverage I drank earlier in the evening. (See, Sherilee, I’m admitting it; I know you would have made the connection after I so abruptly abandoned our FB chat for some quality time with my blender. Sorry ‘bout that, by the way. When Midori calls, I answer.)

The parts of the towel story that really got me: “life in the suburbs,” “washcloth,” and “corn.”

Yikes. Here I go again.