MFM Minisode 481

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Good-bye!

It's a new year and that means New Year's resolutions, so why not resolve to get more

comfy?

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Good-bye!

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Morning.

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Good-bye.

Good-bye.

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Between the casino and the water park, like I could have stayed there for months.

We were so lucky to get to visit this place, and it truly, what I just kept saying, like,

this is such a good idea where you immediately want to be in a tropical location, but then

you also want to go out to dinner that night.

That is the ultimate vacation for me of you're getting a little treat of everything.

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Good-bye.

Good-bye.

Good-bye.

Hello and welcome to my favorite murder.

The mini-sode.

This one is Easter and Passover themed.

Congratulations.

We've finally gone to Easter Passover.

Finally.

We've waited another year, everyone.

I know this is the time that everyone likes to reflect.

We build toward it and we land at it.

Yes.

Here we go.

My neighbor's house is haunted, light-hearted, sort of.

Dear MFM fam, when I was in high school, I used to dog sit for my neighbors when they

went on vacation.

Every night without fail, the two mini-putals would congregate in the front hall in the exact

same spot and bark relentlessly for lack of a better description into the air above

them.

To be clear, this was not a need to go out bark.

They were both so focused and clearly looking at something.

Fucking dogs, man.

They'll scare the shit out of you.

It's so scary.

One night the barking was especially bad and I had already taken them out for several walks

to try to get them to calm down.

I took them out one last time before bed and thought, well, eventually they'll shut

up.

When we got back inside, I locked the front door and pulled really hard on it several

times to make sure it was locked.

I remember doing this because I was really nervous about being alone in the house overnight.

The dogs resumed their position and barking while I attempted to watch some TV and fall

asleep.

After a while, they calmed down and stopped barking.

All of a sudden, I felt like it was too quiet.

I peeked around the corner into the front hall, the dogs were gone and the front door was

wide open.

Ooh!

I freaked out and immediately ran outside to find them.

Luckily they hadn't gotten too far, but I was sufficiently scared.

I've always wondered if the house had a ghost who got tired of their barking and took matters

in their own hands.

Just let them out because they're like, would you shut up?

Got to about seven years later and I'm at my neighbor's house for Passover.

One of the guests had a two-year-old baby who was crawling around all night and providing

a much entertainment.

During dinner, he pointed up into the air and said, ghost, ghost, ghost.

One froze and his mom's jaw dropped.

She had no idea he knew that word.

A little later in the evening, he was crawling on the floor and stopped at the exact same

spot the dog used to bark, pointed to the floor, ready for this, and said, dead body.

No, this is not true.

He was so madder of fact about it and once again, the adults were shocked and creeped out

because this kid's normal vocab is, well, that of a two-year-old.

After years of feeling like maybe my experiences in the house had been due to my imagination,

I was glad to get confirmation from the little munchkin.

Hope you guys enjoy the story.

Stay sexy and stay away from dead bodies buried under houses.

Emily sent for my iPhone.

Oh, God.

I mean, that literally sounds like it's out of the conjuring franchise somehow.

Yeah.

I would immediately start digging, though.

I'd fucking rip that floor open that night and be like, I'm gonna rip this kid's right.

Yeah.

I mean, that's just two, there's your two concrete pieces of evidence right there, dogs

and babies.

They know, dogs and babies, like, trust them.

Follow them into the floorboards if necessary.

Look at Frank right now, speaking of dogs.

Look at Frank.

Oh, he's like, God, so sick of these ghosts.

Okay, this is in celebration of Passover.

I'm gonna read you this email, but I won't read you this subject line.

It says, hey, gang, last week, I smoked pot at the satyr where the house rules were.

Every time bitter herbs are mentioned in the haggada, you have to take a hit, puff, puff,

pass over anyone.

Anyway, my friend, named withheld to protect the nice Jewish boys of America, starts

getting hassled by one of his roommates to tell the quote story about the guy who founded

his temple.

He finally agrees to and says, okay, so my temple isn't a very Jewish town, and it's a very

prominent temple.

But there's this guy who is instrumental in founding it, who used to be a really important

rabbi there who isn't mentioned at all on the website or in the temple history anywhere

and the reason is he hired a hitman to kill his wife.

Jersey, right?

Yep.

The satyr table of partially blazed four cups of manachevets in college kids start losing

their fucking minds.

He continues.

Yeah, look him up.

Fred Newlander.

From the opposite end of the table, the information enters my brain and with the voice

simplifying power of the substances I've consumed that night, I bellow all caps.

I've listened to the my favorite murder episode about him.

Are you serious?

Fred fucking Newlander founded your temple and he bellows back.

Yeah.

And the girl sitting next to him who I've never met yells down the table, I love that

podcast.

Oh my god, I've listened to that episode.

And then she turns back to him.

Fred Newlander founded your synagogue.

We are in a state of pot-fueled recognition ecstasy, I yell back, I have to email them

about this.

They need to know.

And now you do.

I smoke pot for the first time at a Passover sater and I met a fellow murderino all because

a nice Jewish boy bought me weed.

Stay Jewish and don't get high, Sally.

We're going to have to do something to do, by the way.

Right.

Oh my god.

Yeah.

Wow, I love that one.

I love that.

We're not telling you the story.

We're just telling you about this story of finding out that the story happened.

I just, that was great.

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Yeah.

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Goodbye.

Goodbye.

Okay.

This one is fucking crazy.

I'm not going to reach the subject line, but this, I fucking love this one.

Okay.

Hey, gang.

In April 2016, I left my home in Phoenix to move to Seattle because while I live in

a house with a yard when you can pay the same amount for a basement studio with free spiders.

Since I was born here, you could call it a return, but my only memories of the first

two years of my life are derived from old photos.

I met my partner in March 2018.

It was on a dating app, but that almost goes without saying, right?

We clicked immediately after realizing how much we hadn't come in, friends of friends,

the same shows and favorite bars, one of those how have we never met moments?

That's forward.

And there's just two little arrows.

The next time I traveled back to Phoenix, he came with me.

I had a whole host of things I was eager to show him.

Childhood photo albums at my parents' house were not at the top of my list, but I let our

hosts have their moment.

We got excited when we saw a documentation of my first Easter egg hunt, not only because

of my quintessential 90s baby bright pink tights, but because it was in our Seattle neighborhood.

My partner knew the neighborhood since his grandmother lived there, and my mom got a kick

out of the idea that we might have been at the same Easter egg hunt.

Before leaving, I made sure to snap a photo on my phone, you know, in case I ever needed

fashion inspiration from my younger self.

Once we returned to Seattle, his parents treated us to the same trip down memory lane.

I made sure to point out my partner's sweet baby angel bull cut in his Easter photos, but

to be fair, my wispy George Costanza hair wasn't much better, and I pulled out my phone

to remind him.

Our shocking that my hairstyle was the little boy grabbing an egg behind me.

Not only did he match the photos in front of us, he was in the same exact position just

captured from the other side.

My cameo wasn't as conspicuous as his, but my bright pink tights were unmistakable in

the background.

No.

Yes.

They had a picture together?

Yes.

We have the photo each good on our Instagram to look at it, I'll show you.

We started our relationship almost 25 years to the day after that Easter morning, and next

Easter will be married.

Sorry, Jesus, it's our holiday now.

Stay sexy and let your parents show off their dusty photo albums, KPS shout out to our

badass moms who both evaded Ted Bundy in the early 70s at the University of Washington.

Okay.

Molly is going to show you the photo.

It's fucking, I have studied it.

It's fucking real.

There's her in the front, and then her little tights are up in the like upper corner,

and then he's in the background, like picking up an egg.

It's fucking.

That's insane.

I'm canny.

It's uncanny.

We'll put it on Instagram.

I love that.

I love that.

That is the cutest.

I can't believe that.

And I have to say, I did think that it was going to be Ted Bundy was in the background.

Shout out to them avoiding Ted Bundy in the background.

Ted Bundy is hardly trying to get to his gold Volkswagen bug.

Okay.

Well, here's a fun Easter story, similar, not the same.

Okay.

I'm going to read you the subject line that says hello and welcome.

When I was three, I loved candy more than anything.

Candy in any form or variety.

Candy was my passion.

I was also an earlier riser, which meant a lot of morning spent unsupervised until my

parents woke.

It was the 90s and parenting was mostly just light supervision.

Thar be it for me to interfere with the lives of my parents.

Imagine my joy when I rose on a spring morning, likely before the sun, to see just at my

eye level on the kitchen table, a all caps, beautiful colorful box of candy with Easter

eggs and a bunny and beautiful flowers.

I managed to get the box open and was delighted to find lots of colorful little tablets.

What could be better?

Naturally, I ate them all.

Oh, God.

My mom's telling the story goes like this.

I woke up and walked into the living room to find three-year-old Taylor with black drool

running out of her mouth, telling me how good the candy on the table was.

Oh, my God.

It's the Easter egg die, pellets.

She's eaten Easter egg die pellets.

I don't even know what those are.

Oh, shit.

That's right.

Hello, my Jewish friends.

So, basically, it's a kit you get at the store and they give you pellets of die, so

it's green, yellow, and it usually comes out kind of different.

What do the pellets look like, like pills or something?

They literally look like sweet tarts.

Oh.

You put that in the...

Okay.

You put that in the water.

But they're much darker than, like, a pastel-colored candy, very dark, because you put them

in hot water with vinegar and something else, and that's what you dunk your eggs into to

die them.

Dude, I'm fucking 45, and that's the first time I've learned that.

I guess we're going to get you a egg kit this year so you can see the joy we've been

living in.

Oh, my God.

So she just ate the fucking food coloring pellets.

The pellets.

Okay, wait.

I'll tell you more, because there's more.

This says horror and panic ensued after a call with poison control.

They determined that this particular brand of Easter egg die was not toxic, and I should

be okay.

Oh, my God.

Oh, my God.

It's so dense.

It's like, you put a big bowl of hot water down, and like everybody can dip their egg

in the red water all night if you want to.

Oh, my God.

Crazy.

Okay.

This was not my only foray with poison control, and my own child has already built up his

own rap sheet.

We are exploratory eaters.

Stay sexy.

And don't be shy to get up when your children do, don't be shy to get up when your children

do Taylor.

Oh, exploratory eating, and that sign off is fucking incredible.

Just genius.

Yeah.

That's a real, that's a, you know, around Easter time, I think everybody gets a little crazy

too, where it's like people maybe having more fun, because it's a little warmer, and

they're going to party is more sleeping in maybe.

I don't know.

Yeah, drinking a gin fizz.

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Goodbye.

At the end of a long hard day, sometimes you need to drop a big ice cube into a glass

and relax.

Amen.

But if you need to wake up ready to do it all over again tomorrow, try RK-0 proof.

RK is the world's first zero-proof spirits brand.

They invented the warm molecule, which is a patented way to give you that smooth whiskey-style

burn without a single drop of alcohol.

For 14 years, they've perfected more than 28 alcohol-free spirits, all zero calories,

zero sugar, zero regrets.

There's something so satisfying about just having that glass at the end of the day with

some ice cubes on it.

But I love to go to sleep early and sleep well and wake up tomorrow.

And not feel crappy.

Yeah.

And this is such a perfect way to do that.

Yeah.

It's like you don't have to use excuses anymore.

You can get yourself by.

Right.

So if you want the flavor and the moment without the alcohol, try the zero-proof revolution

at rk0proof.com.

Stay safe, stay hydrated.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

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Okay, my last one is about a cockatiel and it's got, it's very long, but it has peachy vibes,

so we have to read it.

Hi Karen and Georgia and Steven, RIP, I know he's not dead, I just miss him.

I just listened to the hometown's featuring pets in a jogged memory of one of the funniest

stories in my family's history, starring none other than Billy, our mean little cockatiel

with the lungs of a demon and the survival skills of a feral raccoon.

Billy was technically my mom's bird, but he quickly became the entire family's problem.

My dad Tom is a plumber and is constantly coming home from jobs with fines.

Dr. Supplies, random tools, once a weird antique toilet, but Billy was by far the strangest

thing he ever brought home.

Billy was offered to my dad who thought, sure, why not bring home a cockatiel?

We think Billy was around one or two years old at the time.

My mom had just had a double bunionectomy.

Imagine me reading that the first time going, what?

What the fuck?

But I like to picture that her mom was like old-fashioned in a hospital bed, both legs up

in the air, interaction, but just her feet.

Totally.

It's one of those things where it's like, it's a tiny surgery that it involves like so

much recovery that you need a cockatiel about else.

That you have to get a bird that will remember, will not die for 90 years.

I feel like bunions were a big thing in the 70s that really haven't, people don't talk

about it anymore.

Totally.

And warts.

Yeah.

On hands and stuff.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

Warts for everywhere.

Where?

But no one talks about warts anymore.

It's almost like you should get vaccinated.

Okay.

It's almost like there's a cover-up and a conspiracy with Jeffrey Epstein.

Okay.

Okay.

So my dad thought, you know what, really help her recovery allowed emotionally unstable

parrot.

So naturally, Billy became part of the family.

He lived to be 21.

He died when I was 17 or 18, which feels both impressive and like some sort of endurance

challenge from the universe.

He wasn't particularly sweet.

He'd whistle back at you or say hi and then immediately try to bite you.

But he did love my mom and eventually he tolerated me.

I was the only person he'd occasionally step onto without drawing blood.

And sometimes he'd climb under my chin to cuddle like a tiny, angry neck warmer.

I wanted to talk so badly growing up that Billy was what I had.

So I pretended he was my dog until I was at least 13 and mildly self-aware.

Now onto the main event, the great Easter escape trademarked.

Our house had an enclosed sun porch with four doors between it and the outside world.

Sometimes we'd let Billy stretch his wings and fly around on the sun porch for some solo

bird therapy.

One fateful Easter Sunday while Jesus was out here resurrecting, Billy decided to follow

suit and rise.

My uncle Chuck came over with my three cousins for Easter and while trying to juggle the kids

and open the sun porch, he left it open for just a second too long and out flew Billy.

Like a feathered banshee shot from a cannon.

Our town was tiny, maybe 1500 people, but rural and full of woods, open fields and bad

ideas.

My dad immediately took off after him following Billy's panic screeches from tree to tree

across town.

He said Billy just kept flying up, probably because the highest he'd ever been was the

curtain rod and the sheer vertical freedom overwhelmed him.

My dad climbed trees, sprinted through backyards and got a variety of small town reactions.

One man, blessed his chaotic soul, offered to grab a chainsaw and cut down a whole ass

tree if it would help reach the bird.

Meanwhile, another man yelled at my dad threatening, if you fall, you'll sue me.

I'm calling the cops, to which my dad, mid tree out of breath yelled, good, call the cops,

I need backup.

Outwards into the saga, my dad finally found Billy perched in a tree to block some

my house, tired and probably emotionally shattered.

Billy let my dad yell, Billy, come on, let's go home and I swear to God he climbed down

the tree, hopped onto my dad's finger like he was saying, all right, I guess I'm tired.

And rode home on his shoulders like he hadn't just caused absolute chaos, but why chase

after him?

Exactly.

Let that bird go.

He'll come back.

Why are you trapping birds in a house?

That's all of it.

It's like me, our horse that we keep in the front room, leave it alone, it doesn't want

to be in there.

Billy's Easter escape is still a family legend, told it every holiday and probably one of

the most dramatic things to ever happen in our little town.

He was a loud stubborn, weird little guy and we loved him for it.

Thanks for inspiring this trip down memory lane and for being the badass voices in my ears

through life, grief, healing and chaos, including bird related drama, SSGGM forever,

Heather.

Heather, I'm sorry.

I didn't mean to be critical about you and Billy, I know it's such a meaningful relationship

and it's forever.

I just think it's like if that bird got out and the bird wanted to come back, it's

like the old saying, let him go, let him go, let him go, if they come back, it's meant

to be.

He was your bird forever.

If not, you had trapped a bird, how do you feel about that?

You feel about this high horse, okay, let's wrap this out.

This email starts, no subject line obviously, dear Karen and Georgia, hi ladies, long time

listener, first time writer, please be gentle, I promise this story makes more sense once

the pub gets involved.

My name's Charlotte, I'm 26, I come from a family so large it feels like a clerical

error.

My dad is the youngest of 11 children and every single one of his siblings went on to

have at least four kids each because apparently no one in my family has ever heard of hobbies.

I'm one of five, the only girl with four brothers and because God has a sense of humor,

I'm also the middle child of triplets.

I was raised, feral, loud and extremely skilled at, you guessed it, sarcasm, I added the

you guessed it one in.

I live in a stereotypical English village, cobblestones, hedges trimmed within an inch of

their lives and neighbors who would absolutely notice if you moved a garden home.

It's the kind of place that feels like something terrible should have happened in a Victorian

novel, but instead it's just quiet judgment and church fets that feel vaguely threatening.

When my youngest brother was born, the youngest grandchild of this already out of control

family, everybody wanted to be there for his first Christmas.

He was born in January, so by the time December rolled around, he had somewhat developed

a personality which apparently made him extremely exciting.

Naturally this caused arguments who would host, who would attend, etc. to avoid the inevitable

chaos my parents made an executive decision.

They packed up the seven of us, five kids to adults, plus our dog and took us to Wales.

Specifically, to a little large complex, where to this day they have no idea how they found

with nothing but countryside walks, one pub, a community swimming pool, and absolutely

no phone service, a bold move.

I was only three at the time, so I don't remember that first Christmas, but we must have had

a wonderful time because we went back the next year and the year after that, and then

for that summer, and then for Easter and then basically for every available holiday slot.

Some are along the way we started inviting extended family and then friends.

Before we knew it, we had essentially taken over the place.

If you were there during school holidays, odds were you were either related to us or accidentally

adopted for the week.

Okay, so one Easter, I must have been about seven, the complex had planned an Easter egg

hunt for all the kids.

It was canceled last minute, dozens of feral children now on the brink of mutiny.

So the women of the family took charge.

They marched us all off to the swimming pool because nothing calms a group of disappointed

children like chlorine and hypothermia.

They left the men of the family in charge of creating a quick and easy Easter egg hunt.

This was their first mistake.

Their second mistake was forgetting that these men had spent most of the day in the pub.

Oh dear.

Three hours later, we returned, dripping wet, wildly excited to what can only be described

as the most unhinged Easter egg hunt ever conceived.

The clues made no sense.

When they did make sense, they were clearly written for people over the age of 50.

And that was only when the clues actually matched.

These had been hidden in places that required upper body strength, adult height, or a complete

disregard for child safety.

There was no logical route.

There was no mercy.

My older cousin, who was about 12 at the time, took control.

She rounded up all the drunken men in our family and reorganized the whole thing and then

made them complete the hunt themselves.

Yes.

And then it says, she's a teacher now, obviously.

It says every clue was rewritten, every single ridiculous hiding place.

Their beer-soaked brains had found hilarious, was included.

They had to climb.

They had to crawl.

They had to boost each other into small gaps.

Children were hauled around like assistance equipment.

Dignity was lost, chaos-rained.

In the end, the Easter egg hunt was a success, even if it was mostly middle-aged men, apologizing

to their children while actively encouraging them into questionable spaces.

And it was the best day ever.

This large complex itself is nothing special, but it is without question one of the most

important places in the world to me.

It holds decades of noise, laughter, chaos, and family mythology.

We still all go back at least once a year over Christmas.

I've had to explain to past boyfriends that my Welsh Christmas is non-negotiable, even

though I don't have a single Welsh bone in my body.

Stay sexy and don't let drunken men plan anything.

Or maybe do.

Charlotte.

I love that.

I love that just fucking chaotic uncles everywhere.

Just drunk chaotic uncles is like such a good vibe.

Yeah it is.

Oh my god, that was amazing.

If you did it, write yours in for next year, you guys, this is going to be a tradition

from now on.

Yeah.

Get ready for it.

If we would love to hear from somebody that was raised half Jewish and half Catholic.

Right.

Tell us about your satyr fucking Easter egg hunt.

Yeah.

We must know.

Yeah.

And until then, stay sexy.

And don't get murdered.

Goodbye.

Elvis, do you want a cookie?

Ah!

This has been an exactly right production.

Our senior producer is Molly Smith and our associate producer is Tessa Hughes.

Our editor is Aristotle Acevedo.

This episode was mixed by Leonis Koelachi.

Email your hometowns to my favorite murder at gmail.com.

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Listen to my favorite murder on the iHeartRadio app Apple Podcasts or wherever you get

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Goodbye.