MFM Minisode 415

This is exactly right. Hello and welcome to My Favorite Murder, the mini-sode.
Here it is, all cute and mini. You want to go first? Sure.
Okay, I'm not going to tell you the name of this one. All right.
Hey, team. My husband and I bought our very first house in the middle of COVID lockdown just over four years ago now.
We had a three-year-old and a new baby, and despite these amazing milestones in our lives, it was a strange time to be alive. One thing that made life slightly less cabin fever-y was the park behind our house.
By park, I mean biggish rocky hill at the top of which is a beautiful Gary Oak meadow. Gary Oaks are gnarly, scraggly Tim Burtonton trees, but the creepy factor is offset by the wildflowers that grow between them.
Crocuses, daffodils, fawn lily, and cammas. Pretty spectacular stuff.
One day, my husband and I had a rare opportunity to go out alone together. Seizing the moment, we got takeout Vietnamese subs and avoiding the plague, we took them to the summit of our hill.
It was a gorgeous spring day, the creepy trees were creeping, and crocuses were in full bloom. We walked past a gathering of 15 people or so, weird to see so many people in one spot in those days, who were perched in a circle at the top of a small cliff overlooking the city.
They had a bunch of acoustic guitars, so we veered hard to the left. Not thinking much about it except that we wanted some alone time, unsullied by tragic covers of Imagine and Hallelujah, we headed down to a nice lookout spot nestled under the cliff, sort of semi-private.
We tucked into our banh mi, so delicious, and were generally feeling pretty happy. The guitars had started up, but the view was nice, so we didn't mind.
Until black stuff started sprinkling down from the sky all around us. Uh-oh.
We looked up, confused, to the cliff above. It took us a second before we realized that the gathering was a COVID friendly funeral.
Oh my God.

And they were shaking someone's cremains onto our picnic. Can you even fucking imagine? Onto our beautiful banh mi sandwiches.
And like during COVID we got up and ran quietly and respectfully and very fucking fast directly all the way home and into the shower. Worst of all, we had to throw out those delicious subs.
And I mean, you know, Vietnamese subs are everything with that soft white loaf and all that cilantro and mayo and green chilies. Sorry, writing while hungry.
Needless to say, date night was cut short. Yeah, I bet.
Like just this desperate grab for one moment together alone. And what you get is a dead body sprinkled on top of you.
That's right. In any case, I first heard your lovely voices around the same time as the ruined picnic and binging the episodes in reverse order was another tool I used to keep sane during pandemic times.
I am a midwife with a medical degree and not a whiff of patchouli about me. And I remember at the time having to attend prenatal clinic visits, births and home visits in swimming goggles and homemade trash bag gowns as there was a shortage on PPE on our Island and nothing left for us to use to protect ourselves.
So scary. Yeah.
Says what a fucking time. Yeah.
You kept me afloat and have kept me company through so many of life's twists and turns in the years that have followed. I am grateful.
Take good care, stay sexy and don't have a picnic at a funeral. Megan.
And then it says, just Megan spelled weird. Because it's spelled weird.
She, her. Megan, that's a story for the ages.
I mean, that's an anecdote that you're going to be able to pull out at any dinner party when people are trading great stories back and forth. You're like, okay, well, everybody sit down because it's my time to shine.
Definitely. This is going to be her grandchildren are going to write in this hometown to whoever is hosting my favorite murder in fucking 25 years from now.
Good Lord. And be like, that was my grandma.
Oh my God. Spelled weird was my grandma.
My mom was pregnant with me during that story, which had cremains sprinkled on her. Oh God.
Oh Oh, shit. Okay.
Amazing kickoff. I think I have a good follow-up here.
Okay. I won't read you the subject line.
And the opening is My Favorite People. Oh, I'm currently at work listening to Minnesota 401, which is listener Catherine's story of being a 10-year-old bartender.
I can't top that, but I remembered my experience as a receptionist for my school district for one morning at 11 years old. All right.
It would have been a totally banal story had I not received two rather unfortunate calls within the same five minutes. So for some brief background, my middle school and the elementary school where my mom teaches were connected.
So when Mrs. West, the receptionist for both schools, was unable to cover the phone lines one morning, the quote unquote logical option was for the 11 year old to do it.
As I was already in my mom's classroom waiting for homeroom to start. I was asked to cover the phones until 10 a.m.
instead of going to my first few classes. What the fuck? Yeah.
That's a job. They have temp agencies, so you can call adults in to do that.
It's a professional job where important things happen. It's schools and children and like...
Yeah, there's like training that's done. Also, who were children that were up for uh the job that she she got it over them i just can't imagine like leaving getting a voicemail or leaving a message wouldn't have been more useful than an 11 year old answering the fucking phone right you know unless it was one of those sassy kind of quinn cummings 11 year olds that's kind of like like calls their parents by their first name.
No nonsense. Yeah, okay.
That's great. Old soul.
Yeah. Big sister kind of a thing.
Yeah. I'm in charge.
Okay, so about 7.30 a.m., I got a call from a substitute teacher who had just gotten in a car accident and wouldn't be able to make it in. I remember floundering immediately, there being no protocol for how to do any components of the job, let alone handle a fairly serious issue.
I ascertained the man was not hurt, and I let him know that I'd pass along his message to someone, literally anyone else. They handled it.
Yeah. That's handling it.
I will let an older person know. Yeah.
What more do you want me to do? Literally. We can't turn back the hands of time.
Do you have insurance? That's all I can ask. That's well, then you've done your part.
Right. Nerves abuzz and getting sweaty.
I tried to calm myself down in preparation for the next couple hours. Then the phone rang again.
This time, the man on the other end immediately launched into a tirade about being underpaid. I'm a teacher there and I need more money.
What are you going to do about it? He demanded. What? Nearly in tears, I blurted out, I'm just Alyssa.
I don't even work here. I'm just Alyssa.
Oh. Had I not been in such a state of anxiety, I might have recognized the voice of my math teacher calling to play a prank on me.
Fuck you, adult.

Within a few more seconds, he realized I was not recognizing the joke and said, Alyssa, it's Mr. Bridger.
Friends, I think I hung up on him. To this day, I don't remember.
Thankfully, nothing bad actually happened and I returned to my normal sixth grade scholarly pursuits. I have to say, I very clearly remember being in sixth grade because that was when I realized like, oh, I love to read aloud in class.

Oh, yeah.

Here's what I like.

Here's what I like. So like if somebody came down and was like, you answer the phone for the day, I would have been seventh heaven.

You're like, here I am and I'm going to get the job too.

Yeah.

This is your new job. I got it.
I was also thinking about prankster teachers and what they were like too. Oh yeah.
That was, that was a type. That was a type that no one questioned at the time.
Exactly. I don't think you can do that anymore.
I don't either. I don't think they want adults pranking children anymore.
I think Mr. Bridger would have been sued to high heaven.
Rightfully. So Alyssa goes on to say, but I learned a few lessons that day, not the least of which is that I'm riddled with anxiety and that you should be wary of adults, even the ones that are underpaid to teach and mentor you.
More so, probably. Yeah.
Anyway, thanks for being the source of many laughs and my companions threw some tears. Oh, and what am I even doing right now? Reconciling spreadsheets as a compensation analyst trying to determine equitable pay rates for new hires at my local university.
Oh, maybe Mr. Bridger's mild harangue was more impactful than I thought.
SSDGM Alyssa, how awesome is that? Wow. Yeah.
That is a good little button. Everything that happens to us affects us somehow.
Yeah. The butterfly effect by Alyssa.
Oh, my God. Committing felonies for the sake of lesbians.
This next one just starts. When I was in high school in the late 90s, I had a girlfriend who was a couple years older than me.
So fucking cool, right? Right. We looked similar enough that I could pass using her ID.
And then it says queer in case the math ain't mapping. Please state it loud and proud.
We'd like to know. She ended up giving me a non-driver ID so I could buy cigarettes.
We broke up shortly after I graduated and I held onto that ID awaiting her upcoming 21st birthday. Unfortunately for me, it expired on that very day.
And with it, so did my dream of getting into Tootsie's The Lesbian Bar. Tootsie's.
Such a good name. Well, unless there was another way.
Ah, yes. Yet another brilliant idea formulated in my underdeveloped prefrontal cortex.
What if I just renewed the expired ID? It says before I continue, I do want to acknowledge that identity theft is a serious and devastating crime. However, stealing her identity was never my intent.
My ex also knew about my plan and was fine with it. In today's world, that sounds crazy, but this was just at a time that most people didn't think about protecting their identity.
Disclaimer. Disclaimer.
We're back at it. Member FDIC.
Clearly, identity protection was not a top priority for the DMV either. At that time in my state, they didn't require you to bring a birth certificate, provide your social security number or proof of residency, which is hilarious because I'm trying to get like my new driver's license.
And I can't bring enough paperwork to prove who I am, even though I already have a legit driver's license. Yeah.
Like they do not believe me because my middle name is in some stuff and not in others. Right.
What the fuck? They're like, can you bring in three gas bills? And it's like, no, I don't. What are you talking about? I don't get paper gas bills anymore.
Right. Can you bring people that you knew in elementary school? No, I'm not friends with them anymore.
Like, can you bring in your own soul in a jar? Right. Prove that you're a human being.
Bring in your inner child. Please.
Then it says, a vague resemblance to the expired id was literally the only identification i needed to renew it what a contrast from today's dmv experience within a matter of 20 minutes i had my photo taken paid ten dollars and was handed back the expired id along with a brand new non-driver identification card with my photo it says yes Gen Z, they used to print them on location. And yes, I went to Tootsie's a lot.
Hell yeah. Yeah, you did.
But just a few months later, I was leaving a liquor store, vodka in hand, and an undercover officer approached me. He said I looked young and wanted to scan my ID.
No problem, right? After all, it was valid

and it was my photo. Except there was a problem.
Apparently, my ex had a warrant for her arrest.

Shit. It was something trivial, like unpaid parking tickets.
I momentarily contemplated

going to jail as her. That's like how bad she wanted to keep that fucking ID.
Yeah, really.

Thankfully, I came to my senses and informed the officer that it wasn't my ID and handed over mine.

He's a man. going to jail as her.
That's like how bad she wanted to keep that fucking ID. Yeah, really.
Thankfully, I came to my senses and informed the officer that it wasn't my ID and handed over mine.

He stood there looking at both IDs, obviously confused at how much we quote looked alike.

In the end, I received a couple tickets and he confiscated the ID. Tootsie was so short-lived.

Unless I'm not even fucking joking. I went and renewed the original expired ID again.
Fucking diabolical teenager. I love it.
Cannot be kept away from Tootsies in any way, shape, or form. Tootsies must have been epic.
But I mean, like, any bar when you're that age, it's like, any bar, of course. But then if you live in a town, if you're a queer person, you live in a town where it's like, oh, no, we'll all be meeting here.
Right. And in the 90s.
Yeah. Yes.
Fucking you must. Yes.
I only had one other instant using it. I was unknowingly carded at a liquor store by my ex's ex.
She took one look at the name, which wasn't common and birth date and immediately knew something was weird. Her coworker got involved.
And since the photo was actually me, he handed it back and let me leave. I was so confused.
But soon after I got a call from my ex explaining that it was her ex that had just carded me. In my late teens and early twenties, I was wild and impulsive, which quickly became reckless and dangerous.
Thankfully, my friends and family never gave up on me and carried me to the other side. I am now 18 years sober.
Wow. Wow.
Congratulations. This podcast reminds me that while my struggles and trauma may be unique to me, they are not unique to the human experience.
That sentiment helps me find gratitude, have more compassion, and be accountable. Wow.
Oh, fuck. That's a lot to get from these two gals.
From this bullshit. I'll take it.
Yeah, really. MFM is a safe place for so many.
Thank you for its creation. Keep sharing stories and their truth.
And as always, stay sexy and don't grow up too fast. Also, don't commit felonies.
Bridget, she, her. Bridget, brilliant.
Beautiful. Right on target for what we're looking for for a story of any kind.
Exactly. Oh, damn.
It's so funny. Yeah, that was great.
Okay. This one, the subject line is Glory Days, the mall.
And it says, hi there.

I just listened to episode 447. Up until Karen got to the utter tragedy that occurred at the Sun Valley Mall, it made me very nostalgic for my mall rat days.

Picture it.

Des Moines, Iowa, 1985.

I'm 11 years old and frequently skulk around the mall in my parachute pants, striped, untucked Oxford, and knit tie that keenly accentuated my amazing mullet and feathered bangs. Ooh, time and place.
Top tier. For some reason, they decided to open a water slide in the mall called the Hydro Tube.
Indoor water slide in a middle of a mall in Des Moines. In Des Moines.
It says, I personally never went on the water slide. And then in parentheses, I had far more pressing things to spend my money on, such as cigarettes, french fries, and shitty earrings from Claire's that always caused infections in my delicate lobes.
It says, the hydro tube didn't last long. It closed only six months after opening.
There remain rumors and urban legends that somebody died in the slide, but I think it really closed because, one, a water slide in a mall in Iowa is a dumb idea, and two, the maintenance was unwieldy. Oh, the black mold.
My God. And also, like, if it was 1985, there's a chance that it's like Action Park-style water slide where maybe the dip was too steep.
You know what I mean? You just go crashing into like the Precious Moments store or something like that. I went on to work at Things Remembered.
That's right. The kiosk in the mall between Tom McCann Shoes and Pet World, famous for engraved ID bracelets and door knockers.
And that was in the 90s. By then having ditched my mullet for massive aqua netted bangs and replaced my parachute pants with rayon hammer pants.
And then it just says the kids today will just never know. Nope.
I had hammer pants. You did? Absolutely.
Like straight up, you know, like elastic waist hammer pants. and could you do the dance i tried real hard out on the playground that's right uh it says the kids today will just never know leone wow yes time and place oh sorry there's a p.s oh p.s i grew up with a dog named Cookie.
In fact, most of our pets were named after snacks. I love that.
I know. Snack names for animals is great.
Yeah. And necessary.
So necessary. Noodle.
What else is there? Our first dog was named Pepsi. Pepsi's perfect.
Pepsi's perfect. Pepsi's perfect.
Pepsi's perfect. And that's why I picked Blossom when I was looking on the Dog Rescue website.
Because she had the same vibe as Pepsi. She had a white wire hair terrier and we brought her back.
Sweet. I know.
Blossom. Oh, Blossom.
She an angel. My last one's called Children Violence Against Mascots.
Hello, gals and pals. Once again, attempting to share a story I think would be worthy of a minisode.
Hey, you were right. As this story does me, it hopefully will make you giggle at the misfortune of my brother.
As a teenager, he obtained and lost many jobs in ways only a stoner teenager could. But there was one job he actually quit.
He was a bear mascot at an indoor water park at a resort. Another indoor water park.
Right in a row. Psychic click in.
Why an indoor water park needs a bear mascot? Beyond me. But a perfect job for a 17-year-old to just get high before work and walk around with no one knowing the better.
Except it's fucking summertime. But you're indoors.
Oh, thank you. Okay, great.
But also claustrophobia and being high. Don't those things go hand in hand? I mean, and by hand in hand, you mean stabbing you in the neck with one hand and poking you in the eyes with another? Exactly.
One day when headed on break, he got in the elevator only to be joined by five roughly 10-year-old boys. As soon as the door shut, the boys all turned in unison to face him.
Already fucking terrifying. then clearly premeditated, they all pounced, taking him down in his fucking barrier.
They all seem to be practicing as many WWE moves as possible before the doors opened again, then proceeded to get off the floor, running away, laughing. Evil.
They fucking beat up a mascot. Of course.
Of course. The insult to injury arrived when he realized due to the mascot head, he couldn't find the leverage to get off of the ground.
So there he lay until a kind family boarded the elevator a short time later and helped him up. He promptly walked his fluffy bear ass into the employee locker room, changed into his clothes and walked out only to return for his last check.
Yeah. Apparently being jumped by a bunch of children wasn't something he was willing to risk for $8.50 an hour.
Fuck no. Go to hell.
Big fan of the show, stay sexy, and don't get beat up by children, Paige. Paige, you're so right about all of that.
I love sibling horror stories because it's just so much more gleeful than your own where you're just like, yes, they deserved it. And also I feel like Paige, like you can tell that story and tell us, you can paint the full picture.
Like sometimes when something happens to you, you're just like, yeah, goddamn kids. But yeah, Paige was like, let me set the scene about this indoor water park and the job my brother had.
And what my brother was like, because her brother's not going to be like, I was a bratty stoner who fucking just had a lot of jobs. Exactly.
He's only going to play the victim. Exactly.
He always fucking does. You have one more? I do.
Okay. Oh, yeah.
And it's a goodie. Okay.
I'm not going to read you the subject line. Oh, okay.
You seem gleeful. Hi, everyone.
Hearing Megan's money booth story made me want to write in about my own son's experience in the booth at Chuck E. Cheese.
It's a money booth story. Hell yeah.
We love it. We need them.
My child has always been a little different in his motivations. For his sixth or seventh birthday, we went to Chuck E.
Cheese, and part of being the birthday boy is a two minute run in the wind tunnel full of tickets.

His quote twin. And then it says in parentheses, my sister and I had our babies two days apart,

went first and got like 30 tickets. So essentially, I guess at Chuck E.
Cheese,

there's a money booth for children, which is instead of money, tickets to get those prizes.

Sounds amazing. I could do it as an adult.
Like, that sounds amazing.

Hell yes.

Also, there's some sort of art installation right now in LA where there's a ball pit for

adults.

Okay.

I'm in.

And you know, I've never been in a ball pit, remember?

That's right.

You have to go.

I know.

Okay.

So the cousin got like 30 tickets.

We had time to think of some strategies.

So my partner and I were giving him very good pointers. He was ready and excited as he entered the booth.
The wind tunnel starts a little slowly. So my son puts his hands out and down to the floor like he was going to freehand grab the tickets.
He didn't. He very, very slowly raised his hands.
Then he started making wind noises with his mouth. Then he concentrated hard.
It was one minute and 45 seconds in that I realized he wasn't trying to get a single ticket. He was controlling the elements around him.
The time ended and he didn't get a single ticket. I'd never seen him more fulfilled.
Sometimes it's just more fun to do what you want and not what the directions say. My son is now 15 and still very easily pleased.
I don't know how I got so lucky. Thanks for all of the things, Katie.
Aww. I know.
Like, if I could be promised one like that, then maybe I would have had kids, you know? Yes, exactly. I wonder't, I wonder though, if those ones, it's just their personality comes out as is.
There's kind of not a lot. It's not like, I don't think people can control that.
No, it's not like the wind. Yeah, totally.
That's it. He's a visionary.
You can't be Magneto and control your child's personality like gravity. Stand by and cheer them on.

Yeah.

Love it.

Cute.

Tell us your stories about your unique child's funny moments or something.

Or an actual money booth if you were in one.

I don't know if you've heard that we're obsessed and we really need those stories.

We do.

Someday we'll have one.

Someday.

Until then, stay sexy.

And don't get murdered.

Goodbye.

Elvis, do you want a cookie?

Ah! And your producer is Alejandra Keck. Our editor is Aristotle Acevedo.
This episode was mixed by Liana Squalachi.

Email your hometowns to myfavoritemurder at gmail.com.

And follow the show on Instagram and Facebook at My Favorite Murder.

Goodbye.