Bond. James Bond.
All of these people have one thing in common: they were some of best and hand-dandiest spys and detectives around, fictionalized, yes, but still masters of their craft. I have always been a big fan of mystery, of finding and putting together pieces of a puzzle to solve a given problem or answer an unyielding question. As a little girl, I would pour through book after book, going on adventures and solving mysteries with the likes of The Boxcar Children, Encyclopedia Brown, and my favorite…Scooby (Dooby)Doo. Some of my fondest memories growing up were sitting with my Grandma Hansen, all snuggled up together in her big blue chair, eating giant malted milk balls and watching reruns of Murder She wrote and The X-Files (you’ve got to hand it to Angela Landsbury…she was one hot momma in her prime and knew how to crack a case).
Secretly, I have always envisioned myself among this list of famous spys, even though my attributes only amount to a few cases of finding a “lost” car in the parking lot of the mall (So embarrassing! And don’t pretend that this hasn’t happened to you on one or more occasions. The important thing to remember here to act cool and pretend to know where you parked, even though you have absolutely no idea), retracing my steps to find out that my sunglasses were on my head the whole time and not back at the store where I thought I had left them (in the words of Homer Simpson, “Dogh!”) and winning game after game of Clue (it was Professor Plum in the library with the wrench). There is something so glamorous about fancying yourself a spy, a no-holds-bar, kick butt and take no-names detective.
This past weekend, I was able to put my inner Nancy Drew to the test. I give you….the Case of the Cookie Napper.
It was a rainy and cold Friday afternoon. The sky was gray, the wind was strong and the trees were losing what few leaves they had remaining on their branches. A perfect day to stay inside and get all warm and comfy-cozy. I was just sitting down to indulge in a little trashy TV therapy (Real Housewives of Beverly Hills…don’t judge) when I noticed it was getting a bit chilly in my apartment. I went over to turn on the heat for, gasp, the first time since there was still snow on the ground last March (ack…I can already feel winter slowly creeping in) but when I got to the thermostat on the wall, which did indeed read a brisk 63 degrees, and tried to turn the heat on, it didn’t work. I attempted to switch, jiggle and manuever the ‘stat in every which way, but I unfortunately still had no luck. Ugh. Time to put in a call to the apartment handy-man.
Let me give you a little background first on one Mister Steve Jones, aka Timer Ridge Apartment’s resident maintainance man, aka prime suspect number uno. I have never actually met Mr. Jones in person but have spoken to, and have been a customer of his services, on a couple of occasions in the past year or so since moving here. He fixed a broken window I had in my living room, gave me back my hot water (after a grueling week and half of cold showers–never have I ever got scrub-a-dub-dubbed so fast in my life!), and repaired my air conditioner (precisely two weeks after the hottest period in Wisconsin’s summer). He wasn’t always the fastest (I always ended up waiting a heck of a lot longer to be helped than what he originally said) or cleanest (there was always a trail of dirt or dust whenever he went, not to mention the massive dumping of clothes, my clothes, all over my room when he came in to fix the air conditioner–it literally looked like a tornado had come into my place and had a party) handy man to have walked these apartments, but he got the job done and for that, I am thankful.
Getting back to my story. I put in a call to Steve and was told he would be out in an hour or so, that it would be “no problemo”. Since I had some errands to run, I decided to head on out, do my Wal-Marting,possibly pick up some dinner, and by the time I got back, would have (hopefully) a nice warm place to come home to. After an always eventful trip to Wally World and a very delicious pit stop at Panera for some soup and sammy action, I returned home and was instantly greeted by a rush a warm air upon entering my place. Nice. Once again, thank you Mr. Jones. However, I would come to find that that gratitude would soon suffer a bit. I put my things down and walked into my room when I immediately noticed my clothes once again were scattered about my room, the contents of my closet spewing out on the floor and bed. The heating and air conditioning unit is located in my closet so in order to get to it, apparently Steve had to move a few things around (not that I have very many things to move around in there…Carry Bradshaw I am not). I understand that he had to do that but to not tidy up, even in the slightest, was a bit unnerving. That however wasn’t what had shocked me the most. No sirry Bob. What happened next will make you shudder, make you cringe, make you pull a Tom Cruise and yell fantastical things while jumping up and down on your couch.
I looked over on my dresser where I had placed a plastic baggy of Packer cookies the day before. I ran across them at the grocery store and couldn’t resist. I mean, how cute are they?! Sugar cookies, frosting, and Packer-themed?! A.Maz.Ing.
I had hit the cookies hard the night before but had placed the remaining few I had in a Ziploc to keep them fresh and to carry around and nosh on while out and about. I distinctly remember having 5, count ’em 5, cookies left. 5 cookies in the bag. On my dresser. Just waiting for me (or someone) to gobble them up and polish them off. That Friday night upon returning to my now heat-filled-clothes-everywhere-I-turned-room, I found the Ziploc bag, I found the cookies, but there were only 3, 3 cookies in the bag with a side of crumbs on my dresser to go with it. Someone (or something, but unless my spider roommates decided to cave into their sweettooths, I am going with the former). Ate. My. Cookies.
Cracking into my detective skills, I layed out all of the information I had, the clues and information presented to me, and the inferences that I had made based on what I knew.
Crime Scene: My bedroom
Clues: Steve (Suspect number 1) was the only one to enter said room (besides me) between the hours of 6-8 on the evening of friday, October 28. Reason for entering said room: Repair heater. 5 cookies were placed in a air-tight and sealed Ziploc bag (you know the bag is closed when the zipper turns purple). Upon returning to the scene of the crime, only 3 cookies, the football, the helmet and the 52 jersey remained, Ziploc bag no longer air tight (zipper was a sad shade of pink).
Evidence: There seemed to be a trail of dirt going from the entrance door of my apartment through the living room down the hall and leading into my room, clearly indicating there was another person in the premises (by the size of the dirt molecules and rough sketch of the footwear outline, I would say the suspect at the time was wearing a man’s size 10 tennis shoe, Nike Shox to be exact). Said dirt was seen at the base of my dresser drawer where the cookies sat, perched above. Cookie crumbs lay scattered on my dresser, near the half-open bag containing not 5 but 3 cookies.
Verdict: I find one Mr. Steve Jones guilty on 2 counts of cookie-naping, one count for each cookie that was taken from their rightful home (my belly). Case closed.
I really think I could give Nancy a run for her money…Hansen. Wendi Hansen. I kind of like the sound of that. After tidying my room up once again, I took what cookies remained and sent them off on a final farewell, but not before giving them a chance to go swimming in a nice cold glass of milk. I guess losing two very sweet cookie comrades was just a small price to pay for a nice and warm home…but from now on, I am keeping all cookies (and other sweet treats) in safe keeping. Yeah that’s right…I’ve got my eye on you Mr. Jones. No cookies for you!