Missing…

If I ever go missing, before the search, ask yourself if I went willingly. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that one day I reach my limit, pack up the car and the cat, and am sitting on a beach with a margarita.

There will be clues. If Skittish Tabby is missing as well, I’ve gone on my own. If all my books are still neatly arranged, or God forbid, in some sort of mess, I’ve been taken. If the closet is in perfect color-coded order and full, I’ve been taken. That I would venture somewhere without my dresses and shoes–impossible.

What brought this on? Shari Papini. The crime documentary girls know. The girl faked her kidnapping and had the whole of California searching for her. Aficionados of the genre know cops should rely more on the clues and less on the comments of others.

If it’s determined I am, in fact, missing, there will be unmistakable clues. Some dos and don’ts when you talk to the police.

Don’t. I do not light up a room. Generally, I try to sneak in without being noticed and do an Irish exit better than anyone I know.

Do. I will leave written clues. These will include what my kidnappers wear and their grammar. There will be judgment. And I will be able to describe their shoes.

Don’t. Everyone doesn’t love me. Beware those chicks who are suddenly my besties now that I’m kidnapped famous. I’m not loved by all. My RBF and disdain for not dressing up send most people over the edge.

Do. Check the gas stations. I will demand my kidnappers get me a toothbrush, a Diet Pepsi, and some Nacho Cheese Doritos. And a new nail person. Check the nail salons too.

Don’t. If anyone says I wore sweatpants in public, went to the grocery store without makeup, or wore sneakers to work, defend my honor. Anyone who knows me knows these to be fallacies. When I come back safe and sound, I’ll come for you.

Do. Pick a photo with a fresh blowout, a dress, and heels. How else will the authorities recognize me? Pfft.

Don’t. When 20/20 comes to film, somebody step in when those people who barely know me sit in front of the camera crying. If you are unaware of the superiority of Stevie Nicks, Meat Loaf, and The Eagles, you didn’t know me well enough to grab a tissue.

Do. Create a suitable vigil. Make sure there’s a bar with a signature drink. What is it? Don’t know? Don’t come. Use candles that smell like Capri Blue Aloha Orchid. And for the love of all that’s holy, get dressed up.

Don’t. Feigning shock at my return. Really? Most kidnappers are men. How long do you think any guy could tolerate mixing dirty martinis, ensuring the ratio of caramel macchiato and sugar is just right in my coffee, and going to Barnes and Noble again? God forbid his kidnap spot doesn’t have a bathtub.

Any sleuths need assistance? The Crime Doc Dolls got you.