A Killer Weekend

Since becoming a parent the weekend has definitely changed.  No more trying new restaurants, or taking long walks after dinner, or stumbling through the streets drunk and happy from a crazy night of clubbing.  (Okay, the last part never happened, but if I had just been given ONE more year, without this 16 pounder, I know I would have been able to kill it.)

No, the weekends are more like prom nights, where leading up to them you get all excited for the possibilities they hold, but in actuality turn into sad nights of washed away dreams of romance, dining and going to bed sooner than you had thought because your feet are killing you.

I know what you are going to say - sell the baby get a babysitter.  Listen, babysitters are great, but every babysitter we've ever had doesn't elicit a lot of confidence out of me in their ability to guard my baby from an intruder, since each has weighed less than my prepubescent fourth grade weight, (Which was 100 lbs. Yeah, fourth grade.) or to correctly change a diaper without consulting Youtube.  So, we stay in, pick up take out, and wait until capable babysitting robots replace eating disorder 13 year-olds before we think of going out again.

So, outside of El Pollo Loco and promising five minute back rubs to each other, what does our hot weekend nights entail?  One thing and one thing only - 48 Hour Mysteries.  If you haven't had the pleasure of watching this show let me break it down for you.  Someone is murdered.  Someone was having an affair.  Someone gets caught.  Sure there's variations on the story, but essentially that's it.

Now as much as I love guessing who had the affair, our constant watching of these shows is starting to bother me.  One, I'm starting to wonder if my husband's eagerness to tune in is less about fascination with mysteries and more about the "correct steps to take in order to get away with killing your wife."  He'll always say after a show, "Seriously, its not hard.  Don't spend a lot of money before the killing, hide the mistress and have a legitimate alibi!"  Like a dutiful wife, I'll nod my head in agreement, and then after, spend the rest of the night trying to break into his email.  What?  I'm finding the mistress before the police report.

Lastly, these mysteries have increased my paranoia level and made me a more crazy observant neighbor.  For example, the other night I noticed a van parked out front.  Without a second thought I studied the make and model and even noted the time I saw it.  Why?  Because friends, that's how these crimes are solved.  A woman walking a dog in the forest, picks up a receipt from Home Depot where someone bought duct tape, a baseball bat, large industrial plastic bags and a shovel, decides to keep it, hears about this murder in town, calls the police, gives the receipt, WHICH IS TIME STAMPED, cameras are checked, husband with mistress comes in, buys the stuff, walks out, old lady remembers red truck with shovel hanging out the back, follow truck on street cameras, see receipt go out window and BAMMMM - dog walking mom is a H-ero.

Folks, I might not be having a rocking weekend, and I might have a husband plotting my demise, but before I leave this earth I'm taking it all in, and by golly, I'm going to see something one day that will save someone's life.

Or cause my neighbors to get a restraining order.

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