A Dash of Murder with a Sprinkle of Anxiety

It’s Friday the 13^th which makes it the perfect day to reveal a deep, dark secret about myself. Well, it’s not really a secret from anyone who knows me, but I guarantee the deep and dark part. I am a murderino. What is a murderino, you ask? A murderino is a true crime junkie. One who looks at tales of murder and mayhem with the utmost fascination. The term murderino is also used to describe followers of the podcast, My Favorite Murder. My Favorite Murder or MFM, as I refer to it, is a true crime comedy podcast hosted by former Food Network host, Georgia Hardstark, and comedienne and comedy writer, Karen Kilgariff.

I adore these two women. They somehow take the dark and macabre genre of true crime and turn it into a platform for women’s rights and self-care. They crack jokes that cause me to literally LOL. Advocates for therapy and mental health, both Karen and Georgia are very open about their past struggles with drugs, alcohol, and eating disorders. They talk about the crime victims not only as a body in a scary story, but as real people. Or as Georgia refers to them, “sweet baby angels.” Stories of murdered sex workers are approached with the same heartfelt sympathy and respect as any other victim of a horrific crime. They are never treated as less than because of their situations.

Karen and Georgia have created a community that may have already been there, but it’s now united. And somehow have made it their own. I have turned many friends onto the podcast and been surprised to hear which friends were already followers. I got to see MFM live in Detroit a couple years ago with my friend Sally. We posted photos on social media, like any good lil’ Millennial. I was happily surprised to see that my old coworker, Desirae, was in attendance and also posted photos from the same show. An old cosmetology classmate, Tricia, reconnected with me after seeing that I was reading Georgia and Karen’s book, Stay Sexy and Don’t Get Murdered. Look guys! Murder can bring people together!

Like most children, I was intrigued by the morose and murderous. But, I never quite outgrew that stage. That might explain why I have always been a very nervous person. My personalities make strange bedfellows. I love a good ghost story and will happily agree to go ghost hunting, then when we get there, I won’t get out of the car.

I remember sitting in a big wing-backed chair in my grandpa’s living room, skinned knees folded up to my chin, nose deep in a big, red leather bound book. The book was about the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated. The photos were black and white, and so blurry I had to put my face close to the pages. Being thus occupied, I didn’t notice my dad had approached and was looming over me, his tall figure casting a shadow over my little entranced state. “Ellen, what are you doing?” he asked.

I looked up and grinned a big toothless smile. “I’m trying to see the blood on this guy’s head.”

Well, that ended that. The book was quickly lifted from my grasp and hidden from my prying eyes. I probably ended up sleeping wedged in between two irritated parents that night. It’s okay, though. I still secretly dug out my mom’s old nursing books to look at photos of gun-shot wounds.

The curious thing is, as fascinated with true crime as I am, I’m an anxious mess. I walk through parking lots with my keys gripped between my fingers. I might keep a golf club under my side of the bed. I said I MIGHT. You don’t know if I actually do. I have given Teddy the stranger-danger talk so much that he told a little boy at his school he couldn’t play with him because he’s a stranger. He just didn’t know the kid’s name. We’re still working on the definition of stranger. Better safe than sorry.

I remind myself of self-defense moves if a creep gets handsy. Go for the balls, Ellen, just go for the balls. I will profess that a creep has never gotten handsy with me. Unless you count old boyfriends. AMMIRITE?! That’s a joke. Jared was my only real boyfriend. Unless you count getting my butt pinched at a basketball game in 7^th grade by a boy. It was the most exhilarating moment in my 13 years. But I digress.

 As anxious and nervous as I am, my morbid fascination has not been quelled. I am filled with fun facts about serial killers. I can pepper in tidbits about Ted Bundy or Edmund Kemper into any conversation. I’m really fun at parties. And I’m either really good or really bad at changing subjects. “Speaking of parties; how much do you guys know about the Donner Party? You gonna eat that last bacon-wrapped shrimp? Eh? Eh?”

I once re-lined all my kitchen cabinets while listening to a nine hour-long podcast about Charles Manson and his cult. I might have gotten into trouble when I worked at the coffee shop because of this. Apparently questions about Charlie Manson’s failed music career are “not appropriate” for the trivia board. What?? It’s interesting!

I find no shame in my morbid curiosity. One might think I should spend my time filling my head with positive thoughts and happy vibes. And I do. But there’s a little back room, lit only by candlesticks, in the curiosity shop of my mind. It is there that dwells the murderous and macabre. This dimly lit library also holds the lyrics to Rapper’s Delight and the Golden Girls theme. I don’t have a category for everything and I have to put them somewhere.