your pal, erin

Author & Psychic Superhero

Inner Larry David: -10, Dignity: 0

MY BETTER JUDGEMENT said, “Don’t confront the perpetrator with a scathing letter,” but once the fury was unleashed, my inner Larry David couldn’t not send it.

My golden kazoo had gone missing and was nowhere to be found. Because I keep my home orderly, it could only be in two possible places: 1) atop the wardrobe where I mindlessly leave things in my bedroom or 2) that remote shelf in my office, along with Les Nessman’s coveted Silver Sow Award and a cache of other sparkle treasures currently for sale on my Regretsy store.

This wasn’t your typical golden kazoo. It was Paul Bunyon-sized —one of only three known in existence. As such, it was highly desirable and wasn’t easy to lose; especially in a house as streamlined as mine.

A bilious tummy ache started to rumble as I realized that one of my Couch Schleppers must have stolen it.


With the exception of Mister Nightcap, a recent divorcee who earned his unfortunate name by inviting me back to the Rumpus Room for a drink just forty minutes after unpacking his bags, all my guests this past month had been just peachy. 

It’s not like my kazoo suddenly grew legs and ran away to seek its fortune. I had dumped the place ass-over-teakettle and it was officially AWOL. 

Stranger Danger was the only possible explanation.

And so, I hit “send.”


My apologies in advance to the 99% of you receiving this letter who had nothing to do with the theft that occurred in my home at some point over the last three weeks. But if there’s one thing we’ve learned from watching Scooby Doo, it’s that it only takes one meddling kid to ruin things for everyone. That little meddler expected that I either wouldn't notice or wouldn't speak up. 

That little meddler is hells to the wrong.

This afternoon I discovered that a rare, Paul Bunyon Issue Golden Kazoo for sale via my online store has disappeared from the Tippy-Top shelf of my private office. Unfortunately, the person who stole it failed to note that it was being guarded by a motion activated Unicorn Of Justice, located in plain sight less than a foot from where the kazoo was taken.

Please be advised that I am currently reviewing the unicorn’s testimony and will be submitting it as evidence to corroborate reports I will be filing with both the Circle of Trust and Safety™ and the Savannah Metro Police Department.

To the kid in question, I am giving you seven days to return my kazoo, via mail or Amazon drone, no questions asked. In the event that it is not returned, I intend to prosecute this case to the fullest extent of the law.

On a personal note, trust is a fragile thing. Karma is a doozie.  When it comes back to bite you, don't be surprised if you are betrayed by someone whom you care about waaaay more than some hapless stranger you stayed with that one time you went to Savannah.

Your pal, 

Not an hour later, Mister Nightcap wrote back to commiserate over my loss, adding —I quote, verbatim— “I’m guessing that part of you has to feel kind of violated. Home stuff is so…intimate in ways, no?”

    My first reaction: “EEEW!” 
    My second: “Sonovabeeech, he did it!!”

It was there in black and white. Since Mister Nightcap hadn’t been able to violate me with a lead pipe in the Rumpus Room, he’d compensated by stealing an “intimate” souvenir from my home: the golden kazoo that might have pressed against the luscious lips I’d denied him. As only Paul Bunyon would have any real use for the kazoo, I would never suspect that Mister Nightcap was the actual thief.

It was the perfect crime. And he would have gotten away with it, if not for this meddling kid!

I immediately wrote the others to apologize again and inform them that the responsible party had come forward. One guest wrote back to wish me luck. None of the others dignified my emails with a response. 

Yesterday I found the kazoo.

It was burrowed in the depths of the super-slouchy Gordon Gartrell tote bag I had checked at least three times in my quest. 

So why do I confess this damning tale, with certain details so obviously exaggerated to protect the innocent? 

Because when I am wrong I admit it.

Because publically shaming my inner Larry David might give him cause to pause next time…and there will be a next time.

Because when I was little, one of my favorite stories was a Sesame Street picture book in which Grover prevents his readers from turning its pages, for fear of facing the monster at the end of the book, only to discover that the monster is he.

Because more often than not, I am the monster at the end of this book.

riginally posted in Connect Savannah (p.45)