Sunday, May 9, 2021

A Soothing British Murder Show

I'm somewhat of a sucker for a British television show. Just give me a slightly rainy climate, people talking about puddings, and a pub with the word "cock" somehow in its name (but no one giggles about it because they're infinitely more mature than we are) and I'm in. 

I really enjoy this British procedural called Midsomer Murder. It's been on for approximately 4,000 years. There's something about it that soothes me. You can almost always count on a POV camera shot of a crime being committed. There you are, a killer, moving about through a fictitious English village when you come upon your victim. Inevitably, they turn towards you and say something like, "Oh, it's you" or "What are you doing here?...what's that in your hand? Ah!!! AHHH!!" And that's it. They're dead.

Here's a life-saving tip for you: avoid ambiguous greetings at all costs. Somebody sneaks up on you, by god you say their name. Full name. Loudly. "Oh! It's you, Sam Jones! I didn't expect to see you here, and carrying your hunting rifle no less." See, now you've ruined the mystery and narrowly escaped being murdered. You're welcome.

Another hot tip for you: Keep your ears peeled for a theremin. One of my favorite things about Midsomer is that they aren't afraid to use the theremin, the creepiest sounding instrument known to man. Theremin music never indicates a positive plot twist. If you hear a theremin, you get the hell out. I will admit it adds a layer of gravitas to the show's theme song.

One of my other favorite things about Midsomer is that the wife of the chief inspector is almost always a witness to a crime or loosely connected to the victim in some way. This bitch has found a lot of bodies. She's in every club and society in the village. Joining the local watercolor society, doing grave rubbings at a church where the local bell ringers are preparing for competition, appearing as an extra in a period piece being shot nearby? By god, Joyce Barnaby is there. [Those are all real scenarios from the show, BTW].

What I don't understand is why people don't stay the hell away from her? Chief Inspector Barnaby is on the show from 1997 to 2011. That's 14 years of this woman having at least some tangential connection to dozens of crime scenes. So, if I'm a resident of Midsomer county, and I see Joyce show up, I'm gone. "Oh it's sure nice to be helping out the village restore this old stone bridge. I can't wait to see it all cleaned up again...oh, is that...Joyce Barnaby? You know what, I just remembered that I have to clean the my flat...before the big, uh, Guy Fawkes celebration. See ya!"

I've begun re-watching the show from the beginning courtesy of Amazon Prime. It's oddly soothing. As I type, there's an episode on in the background and I literally just heard the phrase, "Oh, it's you." My night has been made. 

Sunday, May 2, 2021

Guess Who's Back? Me...and My Anxiety

It's been a long time (I know shouldn't left you, left you, without a dope beat to step to, step to). Almost three years, as a matter of fact. Here we are again. How many times have I stumbled back to this blog after taking an extended break? I'm nothing if not a prodigal blogger. I'm almost certain I have referred to myself that way in previous posts...I suppose there's something to be said for consistency. 

About 10 days ago, I found myself having a good, old-fashioned panic attack. As my husband helped me get through it, I began describing what it feels like to have issues with anxiety. He suggested I write it down. Later that night, I opened up a note on my phone and started writing. It felt really nice to get my thoughts out. So nice, in fact, that I decided I would start blogging again once my new computer arrived.

Anxiety is like a betrayal. You spend all this time treating your body right, taking care of it. You exercise, eat right, maintain an intense hypervigilance regarding everything you can think of so that you're prepared for whatever life decides to throw your way and what's your reward? Your mind and body combine powers (Captain Planet style) to launch a surprise attack of cruelly absurd mind games and concerning physical symptoms. Next thing you know, you can't watch TV or read a book because you're spiraling down the rabbit hole of worst case scenarios. Not to be outdone, your body then shows up and says something to the effect of, "I'll see your runaway thoughts and raise you nausea and chest tightness." Well played, anxiety. Well played. 

I realize this first entry wasn't particularly funny or charming, but I have to shake off the dust somehow. I promise to be more entertaining next time. Plus, who even reads these things anymore? I suppose to keep up with the times this entire post should have been an Instagram caption accompanying an artistic photo of a coffee mug or whatever. Or I should be reading this aloud in my best NPR voice as nature photos with a filter that makes everything have a yellowy glow pass before your eyes on Tik Tok. Too late for that. I've already written everything here, not to mention gone to the trouble of adding an amusing image and YouTube link to a classic 2000 R&B jam. 

Space Race

Was there some rich white guy meeting that we didn't know about where they all secretly decided to get super interested in space all of ...