I almost didn’t write this. But it’s very important. Because as an American, you deserve to know that today in the supermarket, I ran into an elderly woman who looked just like Angela Lansbury.
She was a dead ringer.
Of course she claimed she wasn’t Angela Lansbury. She even went so far as to say her name was Jeanne, from Michigan.
But I didn’t believe her. I watched her ring up groceries. She kept looking at me from the corner of her eye as though she were thinking about reaching for pepper spray.
Then she left.
I watched “Jeanne”—if that’s truly her name—exit the double doors and wander into the parking lot.
I asked the teenage cashier, “Did you SEE that lady?”
“Yeah,” the cashier said.
“Did you notice anything about her?”
“SHE LOOKED JUST LIKE ANGELA LANSBURY!”
“‘MURDER SHE WROTE!’”
“WAIT! WHY ARE WE SPEAKING IN ALL CAPS?”
I’m going to level with you. I cried. Yes, dang it, I cried. Right in the supermarket. Not a big cry, mind
you. Just a little one.
Until then, I hadn’t cried for a long time. The last time was a few weeks ago when my wife kicked me during sleep.
My wife loses control during REM sleep. Which wouldn’t be a big deal if she would have kicked me in the shin—she has kicked my shins plenty of times. But she did not kick me there. I will let you figure out where she kicked me.
Take your time.
Let’s just say that on the following Sunday at church, the choir director had me sing first soprano.
But getting back to my celebrity sighting. When I saw this woman in the checkout line, my entire childhood came flooding back to me.
I have a soft spot for “Murder She Wrote.” When I was a kid,…