I’ve become a fan of the Investigation Discovery channel. The channel replays the 48 Hours programs and lots of quality shows like ‘Who the @#() did I marry’ (focusing mainly on the spouses of murderers). I don’t know why I’m so crazy about these crime shows. Heaven knows they scare me to bits when I’m home alone. Maybe in my past life I was a criminal investigator and I’m hailing to my God given call. Plus, somewhere deep down, I think they help me to avoid my own murder by making my psychotically lock my windows and never answer the door when strangers knock.
Which has turned out to be a real problem for Fed-Ex deliveries… but that’s another story.
Anyway, I always stare in shock at the crime scene photos. Investigators take pictures of the entire house, ie the crime scene, as evidence. Most of the time, the houses are relatively clean. Beds are made, no clothes on the floor, kitchens free of dishes.
I remember the day when my house used to look like this. I gleefully spent Saturdays brushing the grout in my floors with an old toothbrush, inhaling the beautiful smell of bleach. I’d blare the music while dancing with my Swiffer.
These days? I’m lucky if all the dirty diapers land INSIDE the trashcan. There are baby toys everywhere. The walls are cluttered with the baby swing, the baby high chair, the baby exersaucer, the baby runner, the baby stroller… my house has never felt so small… or dirty.
As I watch the murder mysteries, all I can think is, “Dear Lord. Please don’t let me get murdered at this moment in my life. I’d sure hate to have photos of my house blown up on someone’s 50” TV. They wouldn’t even care about my lifeless body, they’d simply be confused as to why there are hairballs on my floor when I don’t have a cat. So please God, not now.”
I imagine a murderer breaking into my home, shouting, "I'm here to murder you!" (OK, so I don't actually think he'd say that, but roll with me here)
I'd shout back, "Wait! Let me Swiffer first! Oh. Could you hold the baby for a sec? I've simply got to scrub the toilet. Sure, you can have a beer, but only if you take out the recycling."
Hubby would come in the door, tired from working two jobs, and say, "Oh no! My wife is dead... hmm... but the house smells just lovely. I think I'll enjoy this a bit before calling the cops."
Sigh. Please, please God. Now is NOT the time for me to die. I'd be too embarrassed.