Or: How I Survived a Murder Plot That Probably Never Existed.
Well, it's official.
I've been in Tennessee for a little over a month, and I've already narrowly escaped being murdered.
Or kidnapped.
Or dismembered.
Or possibly none of those things.
Honestly, the jury is still out.
Let me explain.
Today, Remmie and I decided to visit the dog park. You know, a nice, wholesome activity. Fresh air, exercise, adorable dogs, friendly people.
What could possibly go wrong?
Apparently, everything. At least according to the crime documentary playing in my head.
Exhibit A: The Woman With 47 Different Life Stories
We arrived at the park and met what I assumed was a lovely couple.
The wife was very friendly. Maybe TOO friendly.
We started chatting, and she mentioned that they had recently moved to Knoxville.
Oh, how nice! Fellow newcomers!
As we talked, I mentioned a few things Knoxville is known for.
She had never heard of them.
Interesting.
And suspicious at the same time.
Then, somewhere in the conversation, she casually mentioned that they had lived here for SIX YEARS.
I'm sorry.
SIX YEARS?
Ma'am, six years ago, I was living an entirely different life, and I've already managed to learn a few things about Knoxville in the five minutes I've been here.
But okay.
Maybe she has a different definition of "recently."
Then she told me they moved here from Georgia, where she had lived her ENTIRE LIFE.
Wonderful. A Georgia girl. Got it. Nice place. My niece lives there.
Except approximately 12 minutes later, she started telling me about when she lived in CALIFORNIA.
Hold on.
Georgia your entire life.
California at one point.
Knoxville for six years.
And you just moved here.
Lady, are you in the witness protection program?
Because I'm beginning to think I should be.
Exhibit B: The Husband Was Lurking
Now, while this woman was telling me her life story, which apparently required a map, a timeline, and possibly a federal investigator, her husband was wandering around the dog park.
Lurking.
That's the word I'm going with.
Was he simply enjoying the outdoors and watching the dogs?
Probably.
Suspicious.
Was he secretly evaluating the best location to dispose of my body?
Also a possibility.
At this point, I started mentally calculating how fast I could run.
Then I remembered I'm 52. (53 on Thursday!)
And while I've recently started Pilates, I don't think those few reformer classes have prepared me for a high-speed chase through the Tennessee wilderness.
Remmie, on the other hand, would probably go willingly with anyone offering him a treat.
So much for man's best friend.
Exhibit C: She Wanted My Jewelry. And Possibly My Entire Arm.
Things took a disturbing turn when she noticed my bracelet and ring.
She LOVED them.
And I mean LOVED them.
She kept telling me how much she wanted them.
Then she called her husband over.
"Honey! Come look at this! I want this!"
Now, a normal person might think, Oh, how sweet. She likes my jewelry.
Not me.
My immediate thought?
She's showing him exactly where to cut.
I could practically hear the conversation.
"See, honey? Right there. Just below the elbow. That way I can keep the bracelet AND the ring."
Meanwhile, I'm standing there smiling politely, wondering if my daughter would be able to identify me by dental records.
Which, considering I've been putting off going to the dentist, might be another problem entirely.
Exhibit D: The Sassy Situation (Or Was This a Prison Marriage?)
Then came the story that really sealed the deal.
She told me her dog's name was Sassy.
Cute name.
Apparently, when she met her husband, she and Sassy eventually moved in with him.
And one day, he called out, "Sassy!"
Both the dog AND the cat came running.
Because, wouldn't you know it?
HE HAD A CAT NAMED SASSY TOO!
They both laughed.
I did not.
Because I was too busy trying to process this information.
WAIT. WHAT?
You're telling me that you met, fell in love, decided to get married, and moved in together...
And at NO POINT did either of you mention the names of your pets?
HOW?
Was there never a conversation?
"Oh, you have a dog? What's its name?"
No?
Nothing?
Not even a casual mention during one of those long, romantic conversations when you're getting to know the person you're supposedly going to spend the rest of your life with?
And then it hit me.
WAIT A DAMN MINUTE.
What if they met while one of them was IN PRISON?
THAT WOULD EXPLAIN EVERYTHING!
You can't exactly bring Sassy to a prison visitation room for a little meet-and-greet.
Maybe they fell in love through letters.
Maybe they got married while one of them was serving 10 to 20.
Maybe the first time they actually lived together was after somebody got paroled!
Suddenly, the whole story made sense.
The conflicting addresses.
The mysterious California years.
The husband lurking around the dog park.
The unexplained pet names.
OH MY GOD. I'M AT THE DOG PARK WITH BONNIE AND CLYDE.
Except instead of robbing banks, they're apparently collecting small dogs and women's jewelry.
And I had BOTH.
At this point, I wasn't just concerned.
I was mentally preparing my statement for the police.
Assuming, of course, I survived long enough to give one.
I had seen enough horror movies to know how this ended.
And I was NOT about to become the woman who ignored all the warning signs in the first 20 minutes of the movie.
The Great Escape
I needed an exit strategy.
Unfortunately, I couldn't just grab Remmie and sprint toward the parking lot screaming, "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE PLANNING!"
That seemed excessive.
Even for me.
So I waited.
And waited.
Then, like a gift from the heavens, I spotted a group of people coming down the path.
MY PEOPLE.
MY RESCUE TEAM.
They didn't know it yet, but they had just been recruited into a hostage extraction mission.
I casually announced that Remmie and I needed to leave because I had to get back to work.
Which was interesting, considering I'd just spent the afternoon inventing a murder investigation.
But anyway.
We headed toward the exit.
And wouldn't you know it?
THE COUPLE STARTED WALKING IN THE SAME DIRECTION.
Of course they did.
Because apparently, my soon-to-be murderers were now following me.
Thinking quickly, I stopped and started talking to the group of people.
Did I know them?
No.
Did I care?
Absolutely not.
For all I knew, I was discussing the weather, dog breeds, or the price of eggs.
The important thing was that I now had WITNESSES.
Eventually, the suspicious couple continued on their way.
I waited until the coast was clear.
Then Remmie and I made our move.
The Car Chase That Wasn't
We got into the car.
Doors locked.
Seat belt on.
Remmie safely secured.
I pulled out of the parking lot, relieved that we had survived our first Tennessee murder attempt.
And then...
THERE THEY WERE.
Behind me.
In their car.
YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.
These people were COMMITTED.
At this point, I was practically narrating my own documentary.
"What began as an innocent afternoon at a Knoxville dog park would soon turn into a terrifying ordeal for one woman and her beloved dog..."
I wasn't about to lead these people to my daughter's house.
Absolutely not.
I had watched too many episodes of Dateline to make that rookie mistake.
So I did what any highly trained, completely unqualified undercover operative would do.
I deliberately drove the wrong way.
That's right.
I executed an evasive maneuver.
I sacrificed my own travel time.
I outsmarted my pursuers.
I was basically the Jason Bourne of dog moms.
Except instead of a government conspiracy, I was fleeing two people who liked my bracelet.
And then came the moment of truth.
I turned.
They didn't.
They just kept driving.
Straight.
Like normal people.
Going about their normal lives.
Not chasing me.
Not planning my murder.
Not attempting to steal Remmie.
Not even remotely interested in where I was going.
HOW RUDE.
After everything we'd been through together, they couldn't even commit to the imaginary car chase?
Apparently, they had somewhere to be.
And it wasn't my house.
The Aftermath: Another Netflix Documentary Canceled
So here I am.
Alive.
Both arms intact.
Jewelry still in my possession.
Remmie completely unaware that his mother had just conducted a full-scale counter-surveillance operation in a dog park parking lot.
And somewhere in Knoxville, there's probably a perfectly nice married couple telling their friends about the friendly woman they met with the adorable dog and beautiful jewelry.
Meanwhile, I had them convicted of conspiracy, kidnapping, armed robbery, and potentially murder.
All before dinner.
In my defense, I watch a LOT of horror movies.
And a LOT of true crime.
And apparently, my brain has decided that every social interaction is an audition for Dateline.
The really sad part?
I think they genuinely liked me.
They probably thought they'd made a new friend.
And I was over here planning my escape route and wondering if my bracelet could be used as evidence.
So, if you're reading this and you happen to be the nice couple from the dog park today...
I'm sorry.
You seem lovely.
Please don't take it personally. I can be a little insane at times.
But I would appreciate some clarification on the Georgia/California/Knoxville timeline.
And the two Sassys.
Especially the two Sassys.
Because I still have questions.
Maybe I Just Need More to Do With My Life
And you know what I've realized?
Maybe I need more to do with my life.
For years, I had a stressful job, deadlines, employees, problems to solve, and approximately 47 fires to put out before lunch.
Now?
I go to Pilates, read horror books, take Remmie to the dog park, and try to make new friends.
Apparently, my brain doesn't know what to do with all this peace.
So it's creating its own problems.
No work emergencies? Fine. We'll invent a murder plot.
No employees causing chaos? No problem. We'll investigate a suspicious marriage involving two animals named Sassy.
Nobody chasing me? That's okay. I'll drive the wrong way just in case.
I spent years trying to eliminate stress from my life, and now I'm apparently manufacturing it recreationally.
Maybe I don't need a job.
Maybe I need a hobby.
Although, technically, I have hobbies.
I just keep turning them into crime scenes.
At this rate, I'm going to have to start charging myself for the drama.
And the worst part?
Those poor people probably went home thinking they'd made a lovely new friend. Meanwhile, I went home grateful to still have both wrists.
As for Remmie?
He had a wonderful day.
Made new friends.
Got some attention.
And nearly got himself adopted by a couple of imaginary serial killers.
Just another perfectly normal Tuesday in Tennessee.
Welcome to life after 50.
Where I'm trying to make new friends, enjoy a little peace, and build a new life.
But apparently, after years of managing other people's problems, I've decided to start creating my own.
And honestly?
I'm getting pretty good at it.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go check that my doors are locked.
You know.
Just in case.
Because possibly, this is exactly what the couple wanted me to think.