The fact that it was a victim-less crime did not make it any less horrendous.
This criminal was clever. Cunning. No prints at the crime scene. No DNA.
Solving this crime would require an elite team of investigators.
I discovered the crime while looking for Tylenol in the suspects’ medicine cabinet. A piece of chocolate cake molded into a tight ball. An open invitation to every sugar-craving ant, roach, and cootie within five miles.
I quickly identified two persons of interest, each with rap sheets as long as their chubby little arms.
Linda, aged three, had recently been arrested for fishing poop out of a toilet, inserting it into an unzipped zip-locked sandwich bag, and leaving it, along with its foul fragrance, in the bathroom trash can.
Suspect #2, nine year-old Kimmy, was a repeat offender, having multiple arrests for leaving “potions” in various locations around the house, including under her bed. These vile concoctions contained random ingredients such as ketchup, mayonnaise, soda, and suntan lotion.
After securing the crime scene, I placed the suspects on the bathroom counter beneath bright interrogation lights.
ME: “Listen up, Girls. Who put this balled up piece of cake in the medicine cabinet?”
KIMMY: “Not me!”
LINDA: “Not me!”
This was going to be a long afternoon.
ME: “Tell me the truth. Which one of you did this?”
KIMMY: “Mom, I would never do that.”
ME: “Okay, Linda, did you do this?”
ME: “Then how did it get there?” And, stealing a line from my own mother, “Did it just grow feet and walk there by itself?”
KIMMY: “Daddy must have put it there.”
ME: “Why would Daddy put a piece of cake in the medicine cabinet in your bathroom?”
LINDA: “I think Bluie did it.”
This shameless hooligan disgusted me. Blaming it on her dog was just plain reprehensible.
ME: “Bluie doesn’t have thumbs.”
I was getting nowhere. It was time to call in reinforcements.
ME: “Well, let’s let Daddy figure it out. DAVE! WE NEED YOU!”
We could play good cop/bad cop. Dave would be the bad cop.
Dave wandered into the bathroom, unprepared for the chaos.
ME: “Look what I found in the medicine cabinet! This balled up piece of cake sitting right next to the toothpaste. And both girls deny putting it there."
Without hesitation, Dave looked at Linda and said, “Linda, why did you do it?”
LINDA: “Because I’m sorry.”
I gasped. It was that easy. Clearly, he was the good cop.
Which made me the bad one.
I looked down at the little felon. “Linda, you are sentenced to one hour in your jail cell. No books.”
The delinquent paused before entering her bedroom.
“Can Bluie come?”
The Lousy Advice
As a big sister I am often called upon to provide guidance to my younger siblings. However, I never expected to be the go-to expert on genital crabs.
My younger sister called me in a panic one summer afternoon. Her voice was breaking as she described her predicament: the uncontrolled itching and, even more frightening, movement “down there”.
Now, this was the early 80’s, so I was unable to google “genital crabs”. And since I was not a Gynecologist or an Entomologist, and had barely passed Sex Education with a C, I just had to rely on my gut instinct.
“Shave,” I said, immediately and confidently. It made perfect sense. Without the hiding spots, the little rug rats would be easier to spot. Emily thanked me and I hung up, feeling pleased with myself.
After a few minutes I decided to consult my best friend Cindy, who was far more sexually experienced than I. Upon hearing of Emily’s potential “inhabitants” she said firmly, “Tell her not to shave. She needs a Nix kit from the pharmacy.”
I frantically called Emily, hoping to beat her to the bush. When she didn’t answer, I left an urgent message about Nix.
The good news is that Emily picked up a Nix kit. The bad news is that I did not beat her to the bush.
Emily was not happy when she returned my call. “Lou, I’m supposed to wash my hair with this stuff and comb the crabs out. I have no hair to wash!”
I responded with confidence that I did not have. “Just wash it anyway. The skin, that is, not the hair, since the hair is long gone.”
“Do I comb my skin then?” she asked, clearly perplexed.
Again, guessing, I said, “Definitely.”
It was several hours later when Emily called and reported that she spotted a crab walking on her arm. The hair on her arm is not as thick as pubic hair, so apparently the crab was in search of another place to take root.
“Was there only one?” I asked, imagining a line of crabs in hiking boots with binoculars around their little necks. Emily told me that although she only spotted one, her entire body was itching. Including her head.
“Shaving your head will probably not help, so don’t do that,” I said wisely. I suggested that she go back to the pharmacy and purchase a few more Nix kits and to shampoo and comb her arms, and every other place on her body with hair.
“I am drawing the line at eyebrows,” she said.
“I completely agree,” I responded. “And don’t worry about your eyelashes.”
I lost a bit of credibility with my younger sister that day. But I earned it back a few days later when she asked me how to break the news to her roommate, our older sister Bean, who was scratching uncontrollably. Like a dog with fleas.
“Tell her not to shave.”
The Fish Spa
I approached the Phuket Fish Spa with determination, prepared to stick my feet into an aquarium containing throngs of tiny scavenger fish commissioned to nibble and suck away my dead, dry skin.
My family and I were in Thailand for my daughter’s wedding. I had been very vocal about my visit to the Fish Spa yet not a single family member believed that I could achieve my goal. They were amused by my plans and came along not to support me in my endeavor, but for the pure entertainment value.
I was eager to prove everybody wrong. I could and would submerge my feet.
For five minutes.
Or three minutes.
In preparation for my visit, I had consumed two large Changs (Thailand beer).
I should have had eight.
The Fish Spa attendant greeted me and I shrewdly negotiated a price of $400 Baht for 10 minutes.
She took my money and motioned for me to take a seat at the edge of the aquarium.
I dangled my feet above the murky water. The fish looked up at me, their tiny, greedy, mouths watering.
I tentatively moved my feet closer to the water. One millimeter at a time.
My husband Dave, who was standing in an every-growing crowd, shouted, “Stick’m in! You’re wasting money!” My sister, who had bet against me screamed, “Don’t do it! You’ll get rabies!”
I inched my feet downward.
I was about 7 minutes into my 10-minute Fish Spa treatment, and still about 2” from the water, when the Fish Spa Attendant reached over and SHOVED MY LEGS INTO THE WATER.
And my feet responded like a jack-in-the-box, catapulting several fish into the seedy looking bar across the street.
Meanwhile, daughter Linda and brother-in-law Mark were thoroughly enjoying their fish exfoliations in the adjacent aquariums.
And they began to apply peer pressure. Calling me a wimp. And other, unnecessary names.
I tried. Oh, how I tied. I really did. But every time my heels touched that water, and I locked eyes with those flesh eating monsters, I screamed.
The crowd began to thicken.
I had an audience.
And I realized that I had to give the performance of my life. From out of nowhere came an unexpected surge of Adrenalin. I took a deep breath and lowered my feet into the terrifying tank.
And I successfully achieved my goal.
I decided that I would save my Fish Spa treatment for the next time I’m in Thailand.
And I’ll have eight Chang before I go.