The Whore's Head

It was 2007. He went Christmas shopping without me and came home high from his self-proclaimed success. I knew this would not bode well for me. He was prone to buy things that required allen wrenches and drills. Games with tiny pieces made from skin splitting plastic. Toys that the kids would "grow into" which means one of two things; either he had one as a kid or wanted one as a kid.

So it was no surprise when he showed me the WWF Wrestling Ring he bought for The Boy. It even came with a little plastic folding chair to ensure that his playtime included the simulated brain hemorrhaging of his opponent. It also came with enough rope for me to hang myself.

And then he showed me Boss Lady's gift:

Me: What the fuck is that?

Him: It's a Bratz doll. (His expression reads: Duhhhh)

Me: It's a whore's head. You bought our daughter a whore's head.

Him: I thought she'd like to do her hair.

Me: She has porn lips and it looks like she's been sucking dick all day.

(He looks at her lips as if he's trying to detect if I'm correct and if I am correct, maybe he'll just keep the whore's head for himself.)

Me: Are you going to buy The Boy a whore, too?

Him: Maybe. His sixteenth birthday sounds about right.

Me: Do me a favor and buy the whole whore next time. The last thing I need around here is a bunch of whore heads rolling around.

Him: Oh, I will. Gonna buy me one, too.

Me: Well, don't forget about me. Maybe we can get a family deal. Super-size our meal, so to speak.

Him: You're filthy.

Me: You're the one that bought a three year old a whore's head. And by the way, you do this all the time -- buying things that you really want and pretending it's for the kids. If you wanted a decapitated whore for Christmas, you could of just told me.

Him: Really?

Me: Really.

Him: I love you.

Me: You should.

Miss Spoken's State of (Her) Union Address

It's been an entire thirty seven years since I became President of my own Union. I'm sure you're thinking to yourself, Hey fuck-nut, aren't we all President of our own Unions? and to that I would declare a resounding Ummm, no.

Some people take years to become President of their own Union. You know who I'm talking about. They start their laxidasical lives as babies waiting for their mother's milk to come in instead of just nuzzling up to the lactating cat (lazy fucking newborns). These were the Junior High girls that took an F in gym class instead of paying me to forge a note in my perfectly adult-worthy longhand:

Dear Mr. Dempsey,

Please excuse my daughter, Mindy May, from P.E. class today (Monday, October 3, 1985) for she is suffering from significant cramping due to her menstrual cycle.

Thank you for your discretion and understanding,

Mrs. May

It pays to be in Honors English. At $1 a note, multiplied by a school full of bleeding girls, my self-enterprising ass could afford the new Tears For Fears album. Fuck chores, fuck allowance (Shout, shout, let it all out). I'm President of my Union and in charge of all financial matters.

Even in High School, I declared my living conditions uninhabitable and moved out. Sure I floated from friend's couch to friend's floor and maybe a night or two on the beach but, dammit, a President has to sometimes mingle amongst the homeless common folk. I also spent a couple of weeks at a Korean friend's house, surviving on Kimchi and cold rice (height: 5'10, est. weight: 12 lbs). I considered this necessary to understand foreign policies. I am now very savvy when it comes to other cultures, and not just because my mother dated a Filipino man and my father speaks in tongues (Meth tongues, that is).

Today, the State of my Union is this:

The housing crisis you might be experiencing in your Union, is relatively mild in mine. Yes, I have a landlord that is often "out of the country" and an improperly installed skylight which sometimes causes it to drizzle in my living room, but I am not living in a cardboard box under the bridge. I consider this a great success.

Employment is down. Creativity is up. Someday, maybe the two shall meet and I'll get paid for writing about vaginas and Xanax. I would like to pass a bill that allows me to be paid per usage of the word fuck as well.

Healthcare is non-existent which is why I may have to start buying Xanax from Mexico. Can you smuggle pills in a gasoline tank? It's also the reason I'm considering performing at-home pap smears.

Seraphia: 50% Saint, 50% Stripper

There is a charming little oceanside town on the California Coast just south of San Francisco. It's filled with over-priced boutiques, surfers, artists, $15 artichoke appetizers and the world's best seafood restaurant (and I'm not just saying that because my Aunt works there).

It's also a great place to build an illegal fire on the beach and smoke a little crack until you vomit and then smoke a little more.

And for whatever reason, it's a place where the local teens are given nicknames that stick with them for life. It's kind of like a Catholic getting their very own confirmation name. I was never confirmed (and not just because I told my mom the holy water burned) so I never got to give myself a new name. Which is too bad because I already had a named picked out - Seraphia. Seraphia, because she was a virgin and a martyr and if you're going to pick a new name you might as well go big. That, and because I thought it would be a great name if I ever had to work the pole for a living or serve sloppy mouth hugs in the VIP room.

[Gentlemen, please put your hands together for the lovely, the virginal, the long-suffering ...Seeeraphiiiiaaaaa .....]

And I didn't grow up on the coast so my nicknames in High School were totally crappy. People still call me G, which is short for Gina. I just totally blew your mind with the originality of that one, huh? Maybe that's why I've dubbed myself Miss Spoken. Or maybe I just love the idea of an alternate personality, one that refuses to integrate. One that doesn't play well with others and sometimes stubs her vagina (not really, but I hadn't used the word vagina yet in this post and I always like to use it at least once. You're welcome.)

My late husband grew up in this town. Actually, he would clarify that he grew up in Trailer Town which is exactly what it sounds like; a community of trailer homes. Double wide, bitches. Anyhell, he went by the name Seltar and I think I dated him for several weeks before learning his real name was Richard. My sister, Miss Led, had a similar situation. She once dated a guy but could never remember his name so she just called him homey.

"I love you, Miss Led."

"Ditto, Homey."

Actually, I guess her situation wasn't the same at all. Anyway, my point is that these people have the best nicknames I have ever heard of. Names like Turkey Dinner ('cause he was as big as a turkey dinner), Puppy, Bucket, Goose Mama, Frogger and his little brother Tadpole (fucking brilliant), Clayture, ZiirroSixx (I'm sure I spelled that wrong), Jungle Brother (no, he wasn't/isn't black) and the list goes on and on.

So what'd they call you back in the day? Come with it, Innernetterz. I promise I won't tell a soul.

Latex Gloves and Vomit: It's Not As Fun As It Sounds

There was once a time in my life when the snap of a latex glove meant I was about to engage in some lurid act of sex. Something positively fringe.

That is no longer the case.

Now I wear them if I'm about to stain some vintage looking piece of furniture I picked up at a thrift store, or I wear them to clean vomit.

This morning as I slipped my hands into the familiar gloves, it was to clean up vomit.

It all started last night somewhere around 2:00 AM when Boss Lady climbed into my bed whimpering and burping up all kinds of awful (you are so jealous of me, I can tell) and carrying with her the distinct smell of a five year old that's about to lose her cookies. If you don't have kids and therefore don't know what the hell I'm talking about, let me explain this potent perfume: it's equal parts sour milk, rotten fruit and Lucky Charms.

Where there's smoke there's fire, and when there's this smell there's vomit. Ten minutes later she's face down in the toilet and I'm holding her hair, rubbing her back and cooing like a pigeon in my daughter's ear.

What I didn't know was that she had already hurled in her bedroom. I didn't find that out until about 8:00 this morning after it had cooked all night thanks to the heater that I left on.

Oh.My.Gaaawwwd.

When you combine partially digested pasta with a room set at a comfortable 68 degrees, what you get is cookie dough. Puke patties.

"Why didn't you tell me you got sick in your room?" I ask her this as my hands start to sweat and I consider just throwing the whole fucking bed away or burning it in my neighbor's yard.

"I didn't make it to the bathroom. Can I have some cereal?"

"I don't think that's such a good idea." I say this to her but what I mean is No, you can't ever eat solid foods again. In fact, I'll be putting all future meals in the food processor and you'll sip it through a straw because Mommy doesn't like picking up chunks of food that were once in your stomach but are now all over your bed and the carpet.

"Oh, and Mom ...."

"Yes ..."

"I also frew-up in the heater."

His Uterus and Her Need to Scrub the Floor

Think Invasion of the Body Snatchers meets Wife Swap meets Leave It To Beaver ... that's what's been going on around here ever since my daughter moved in with my brother and my mother in turn moved in with me.

Let's start with my brother.

The day my mother moved out, he stayed up until 2:00 in the morning trying to eradicate her existence from the kitchen. An actual exorcism of her Asian fusion decor was performed. His goal: to turn this tiny little 3 x 5 cell of a galley into some kind of Tuscan-styled renaissance kitchen. I get it -- he wants to place his stamp on the house and he's gay which, if you were into stereotypes (shut your mouth, we all know you are), you might think the results would be faaabulous: shiny copper pots, Italian Country ceramics, textured walls, and somebody pouring me a glass of Chianti. But there isn't too much you can do to a kitchen that consists of a sink, a stove, a refrigerator and two feet of counter space. So with little resources and probably even less understanding of anything Italian (except knowledge that his father's-father's-father's family was from The Old Country), he took some plaid fabric that contained at least some of the warm colors one might find under a Tuscan sun, and swagged it across the metal spice rack drilled dead center in the middle of the wall.

He is also cooking things like creamy mushroom chicken and soup made from the carcass of a turkey. He's planning ungodly events like Family Game Night and doing other crazy things like growing hips, tits and a uterus. Look! Here's a picture of him taken just one hour after my mother's mattress was loaded on the truck:

And then over at my house, my daughter Boss Lady has completely given me the finger (apparently a running theme amongst my girl-children) and joined my mother's camp. Not only is she a traitor (if she keeps this shit up I told her she can forget about getting new underwear for school next year), but she has become some kind of cleaning hurricane, a category five. Her idea of fun is to clean out the garage and I place the blame entirely on the woman who made me bleach the fucking sidewalk when I was little. Now my daughter comes home from school, throws back a chocolate milk and a PB & J and then it's off to work: dusting, sweeping, cleaning her room, making her brother's bed and wetting clumps of napkins then wiping down anysurface that gets in her way. As I write this post, she is downstairs with my mother breaking in the new vacuum cleaner. Seriously.

Later she'll ask, "What about laundry, mom? Shouldn't we do some laundry?" "No, honey. I already did the laundry."

She'll shake her head at me and think to herself, Man, my mother is some kind of lazy and would anything get done around here if it wasn't for my tireless devotion to cleanliness?

Where my mother's estrogen levels may be plummeting , it is clear that Boss Lady's are spiking. She has become consumed with brushing her hair and painting her nails and smearing all kinds of sparkly glitter vaseline-like substances all over her face. "I like to be shiny," she says.

She wants to get her ears pierced even though she knows it will hurt. It's obvious to me that the next request will be to have her legs waxed before swimsuit season arrives. "They're hairy," she says.

At this rate, my brother will turn into my sister and my daughter will turn into my mother and I will be forced to turn myself into some place with soft walls and no forks.

The Great Move of 2010 .... Bologna and All

Good God, it has actually happened. My eighteen year old daughter has moved out. Of course it's just a five minute drive from here and she's living with her Uncle, but still. She's not living under my roof anymore which means she could very well be one step closer to living a life that doesn't make me hold my breath and cringe when the phone rings.

Her ascent into adulthood has not been easy and she has gone into it kicking and screaming the whole way. Drowning feral cats would be easier. Honestly, I've never seen anything quite like it. I mean, who would want to live with their parents for the rest of their lives? Yes, I'm sort of awesome but seriously, if I were approaching nineteen, I wouldn't want to live with me.

When I was her age (Jesus, I sound old and full of things a parent would say), I was living with my boyfriend at the time (her father), working and sharing a rental in Half Moon Bay with some quasi-hillbillies that chewed tobacco, drank Old Crow and went deer hunting. I'm from San Francisco so living in that environment was not dissimilar to moving to Pluto. In fact, I'm pretty sure I would have been happier on Pluto.

It was pretty clear to me that I had to get the fuck-all-hell out of that situation and that I would have to do it without much help.

By the time she was two, I had ditched the boyfriend. He was an artist and a musician and although he loved his daughter, he was more likely to be found at band practice than he was changing a diaper or looking for a job that actually paid in currency, not free bong hits and acrylic paint. I also upgraded my job from part-time jewelry maker and part-time housekeeper, to full-time bank teller. I was able to enroll my little girl into a Montessori school which sounded all kinds of fancy. And then best of all, I snatched up my own little one bedroom apartment. My place. A place where there would be just one television (not two stacked up on top of one another) and I could watch Shark Week as much as I wanted to. I didn't have roommates who wanted to show me how they could make a deer's paw move even though it had been severed from it's leg. A place that smelled like jasmine and sandalwood; a place that acknowledged red wine as it's own food group. My place.

When my daughter moved out, I gave her $100 accompanied by a look I'm sure she has seen far too many times: my right eyebrow arched and my lips painted with high gloss sarcasm.

"This is $100," I explained as if she had never seen actual cash before. "You have to pay half of your new garbage bill because it costs money to put trash in a can and for people to haul it off to trash-land. This isn't 18th Century London you know."

Snatching money out of my hand while rolling her big green eyes has always been her specialty and on that moving day, she did not disappoint. "Yes, I know that mom."

So along with the a crisp hundred dollar bill, I sent her on her way with boxes of canned foods (you never know when an earthquake might hit), frozen waffles (because they can sometimes replace bread), Ranch dressing (because she puts it on everything), granola bars (again, natural disasters can strike at any time) and several rolls of toilet paper. I tell her to take special care of the toilet paper. "You're living with boys now honey and boys are gross."

The next day she accompanies me while I go food shopping, a task that I personally loath. If I didn't have these wildebeasts children to feed, I would live on red beans, rice, coffee and Chardonnay and splurge on vodka and fruit in the summer. So it's checkout time and as I'm paying for my haul (pushing $200), I notice her slowly putting her items on the conveyor belt.

"What's the matter?" I ask her this even though I already know and because I'm an asshole sometimes.

"This is stupid. I hate spending money on food." She knits her brow into a frown and is genuinely unhappy that she has to do this.

I smile because her items consist of this: one loaf of the cheapest bread she could find, one pack of bologna, one 2-liter of generic soda, two Rockstars, a box of Apple Jacks and a gallon of milk. Her grand total is less than $15 and she hesitates as she gives the cashier her un-earned $20.

I can't help but laugh all the way out of the store. She can't help asking what I'm making for dinner that night.

"Not bologna sandwiches," I smile.

And she is less than pleased with me.

Somebody ... Anybody ... Toy With Me!

I'm squealing with delight (yes, squealing) because ... [drumroll, please] ... I'm guest writing over at Toy With Me today!! Yaaaay me! I can hardly contain myself. Good Lord ... maybe I should get a grip and stop drinking my coffee from a bucket and a swirly straw. Anyway, come see me at Toy With Me to hear what I have to say about The Sex, or lack thereof, and the things that I may or may not be willing to do to stop my vagina from writing sad poems and crying all the time (not really, the crying would be kind of gross don'tcha think?)

WARNING

If you are a person who gave birth to me, are related to me or find the thought of me engaged in The Sex disturbing, you don't have to read the article. You can support my writing in other ways. Like free babysitting. And money, money is always good. Oooooh, and one of those ergonomically correct desk chairs. No? Then click here, dammit!

Her Turntables Might Wobble But They Don't Fall Down

My sister, Miss Led, lives in a place where she's not allowed to have a cell phone. There's also no television and forget about a newspaper so don't bother asking her where Tiger is 'cause she'll just tell you that he's hiding in the doghouse with Kitty Carryall.

But my sister is resourceful and not one to follow all the rules. Her contraband is her cell phone and yes, it's fancy so it has Internet access which means she's finally able to join the army (where army means handful) of people following the word of Miss Spoken.

She immediately observes two things:

1. I use a lot of profanity, maybe too much for her. That's odd because I seem to recall her owning a stack of fluorescent orange stickers that read, "Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck!"
2. There is a noticeable lack of postings that are centered around, involve, showcase or otherwise mention her.

There's not much I can do about number one, but I'm all over number two. Ladies, gentlemen and children too young to comprehend the filth that rolls off my tongue ... now appearing in the center ring, ..... It's .... Miss .... Led!

[Insert random clapping, muffled coughing and shifting uncomfortably in one's seat]

I'm sure it wasn't easy growing up with me as a big sister and not just because of my incredible intelligence (please don't make me explain quantum mechanics again). I'm guessing it was difficult because I'd play games like Let's Make Little Sister Close Her Eyes & Walk Her Into Stop Signs, and the ever-popular Let's Put Little Sister On The Handle Bars & Hit A Curb. And who could forget Let's Grab A Knife & Chase Little Sister Into The Closet singing the "We Don't Like Snitches" song.

And when my mother decided to give her a pixie cut, she looked less like Mia Farrow and more like she fell head first into a wood chipper. And God help her, her favorite outfit at the time was this rose colored jumpsuit that made a shwoosh shwoosh noise every time she fucking moved. To this day, I have no idea what kind of fabric that was but luckily she took her school picture in it so future generations can continue this perplexing research.

There are way too many stories to tell about Miss Led.

Like the time she came home high on Ecstasy and thought my Aunt was giving a blow job to a guy in a wheelchair (She wasn't. At least we're pretty sure she wasn't). Or the time she accidentally glued one of those squiggly eyes to the center of her forehead using industrial strength adhesive. And how together, we both like to torment our Grandma by constantly saying words that offend her: creamy, faggot, orgasm. Grandma might deserve this because these are her favorite words: Go to hell and piss on you all.

Miss Led ......

She's a little bit of this:

And a little bit of that:

She may or may not have had sex in a cemetery. She certainly had sex in Candlestick Park.

She can recite nearly every line from The Devil's Advocate ("It wasn't the wine, Kevin...")

She was once overcome with emotion while listening to a song and started to cry. The song was Tupac's "California Love."

I should probably stop here before this turns into an unauthorized biography and she sues me for defamation of character.

Legal Takes Flight ... Kinda

Some of you may know that my daughter (code name: Legal) thinks I am The Devil. Some of you may guess that I don't care. You would be correct.

I can't tell you how excited I was when she turned eighteen, and not just because her juvenile record would be sealed. I thought she might be inspired to, oh I don't know, do something with her life. Because what eighteen year old wants to live with their mother? Especially this mother.

But it's six months later and six months closer to her being nineteen and nothing has changed. She doesn't go to school and doesn't work. She puts the dinner dishes in the dishwasher, vacuums a couple of times a week and most Sunday nights she puts The Boy and Boss Lady in the bathtub and hoses them down. In return for these Cinderella-esque tasks, she demands a weekly flat rate of $20, plus cigarette money and an endless supply of Rockstar energy drinks. The warm room and running water ... well, that's just a given.

She has broken every curfew and crossed every line drawn in the sand. She has, on several occasions, stayed out all night without so much as a phone call. I've busted her smoking pot. This doesn't come as a surprise seeing as how she has a pot leaf the size of my palm tattooed on her fucking thigh.

My daughter is beautiful and smart. She's artistic and capable of so much more than social networking and straightening her hair.

I love my daughter. In fact, I love her enough to tell her that she has to leave. And that is exactly what I've done.

So this weekend, Legal will be moving in with her uncle (Puppet Boy ) and his partner (My Gay). In exchange, I get my mother. I haven't thought of a good nickname for her yet but I'm sure that once she moves in and annoys the fuck out of me, I'll be inspired.

This could be a great thing for my daughter. She might learn a few things about leaving the nest. Simple truths, like deodorant doesn't magically appear in the medicine cabinet; that life sucks when you're out of Tampax and have to use copious amounts of toilet paper as a makeshift pad; that Top Ramen can be eaten for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

So what's your take, Innernetz. Did you ever have to push your little birds out of the nest?

Aunt Becky Asked What?!

Maybe you know her as Aunt Becky. Maybe you know her as Mommy Wants Vodka. Maybe you don't know her at all which sucks for you.

Anyhell, Aunt Becky is interviewing the Internet and since I never pass on an opportunity to express my opinion, I'm going to play along.

1. Dave and I have a long-standing feud over cheese in a can. He thinks it's food of The Gods while I think it's probably Of The Devil. Your take? I have three loves in my life. If you're thinking my three kids you'd be sorta wrong. It's cheese, olives and wine. It's no coincidence that the Supermarket Powers That Be put these three lovelies near each other in the market. It's so us drunkards connoisseurs don't have to travel far to get our fix. Therefore, it's no wonder that aerosol cheese is located near things like beef jerky, Ding Dongs and Doritos. I'm not saying The Daver is a stoner, but ... nevermind.
2. Is there any way you can think of to make the elder Gosselins go away? I AM ALL EARS. I might know a few guys from Chicago (wink, wink). While we're at it, that kid of theirs with the braces needs some time in the corner. Like wet knees kneeling on rock salt for an hour kind of time.
3. Who is your ridiculous "I can't admit this to anyone in polite company lest I be banned from life" crush? All my future ex-husbands are imaginary and I am proud of each and every one of them, especially Mike Rowe. I've got a dirty job for him. In fact, it's filthy.
4. If you could fuck it all and pursue your dream (assuming, of course, you were going to be GOOD at it), what would that dream be? I hear that Balloon Animal job at Chevy's is pretty sweet. That, or an artist (the writing and painting kind).
5. They say "living well is the best revenge." I think they are wrong. Do you? No. I'd say the best revenge is a hot poker in the eye.
6. What is the most humiliation you've experienced in public that you'd be willing to admit to The Internet? So many to choose from. I'm sure there's a few I wasn't supposed to get my period until next week stories. A few more involving too much tequila and too little clothing. Maybe it was the time I was bouncing walking to work in a beautiful buttoned up red silk blouse. Everybody kept smiling and waiving at me and I thought to myself, whoever said that people in The City weren't friendly didn't know what the hell they were talking about! That is until I got to work, checked my lipstick in the mirror and realized that all that friendliness was due to the fact that my 38DDs, encased in a sheer bra, had made a great escape.
7. Are you honest with The Internet? Like, if I came over to your house tonight (heh) (I'm coming over, yo) would I be surprised at who I found? I only lie when answering questionnaires.
8. If you could have one talent that you don't currently possess, what would it be? Hmmmm.... knowing how to make the world's best cheesecake wouldn't be too bad of a talent to have. Being a contortionist also holds some appeal.
9. There's not always room for Jello. Is there? Shudder. Dry Heave. Repeat.
10. What's your guiltiest of the guilty pleasures? Does masturbation count? Does it count more if I'm Catholic?

Why Count Sheep When You Can Count Felonies?

I'm having trouble sleeping. Actually, I've had trouble sleeping for as long as I can recall which, thanks to the 80s, isn't all that long. I love sleep, but she's a tease and often eludes me.

Even when I'm cradled in feathers with the blinds drawn, the alarm clock turned away from my eyes and the room perfumed with sleep-inducing lavender; even with a sleep mask on and under the influence of two sleeping pills and a Nyquil chaser ... I cannot manage to fall asleep and stay asleep. I wake up when I turn over, I wake up because I think I hear somebody calling my name and sometimes I just wake up for no discernible reason whatsoever.

Two nights ago, I didn't fall asleep until after 3:00 am. I turned over (12:00 am), closed my eyes and thought about maybe going to the Bay Area to visit my best friend. I turned back over and thought maybe he should come here. I flipped over on my back (1:23 am) and thought about what I'd wear tomorrow. Stuck my leg out from under the comforter and thought Why bother? You know it's gonna be yoga pants and a long sleeve shirt, again. I flip the clock around (2:49 am) and think, If you fall asleep right now, you can maybe get 3 1/2 hours of sleep but that would be fucking impossible because you're still thinking and you're not going to fall asleep right now. Damn It! Now I'm wide awake doing nighttime math and developing anti-sleep excel spreadsheets in my head. My mind presses down on the accelerator and takes off. How much should I give The Boy when his tooth finally falls out? Did Legal pre-set the coffee? Should I go downstairs and check? Do I moisturize enough? Where the fuck is Tiger?

So last night, after nearly pissing myself watching Chelsea Lately's Bloopers show, I make my way to bed exhausted and ready for the Sandman. It's just after midnight and the pillows are perfect and I'm not too hot or cold and I feel myself drifting off ... off ... and o f f . . .

"PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE CAR!!"

Huh? My eyes pop open, I prop myself up on one elbow and wonder if I'm having audio hallucinations (again).

"PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE CAR, NOW!!"

Ah shit.

Those words and that tone are unmistakable. It's the fucking police. I creep over to the window to see some fool in shorts (it's 18 degrees outside) assuming the position over my neighbor's car. Miss Perceived's mother's car to be exact. And the cops are undercover cops, sporting long goatees, Dickies and flannel shirts buttoned just at the neck. They're good. Even I'd buy drugs off these guys, you know, if I were still into that kind of thing.

Then comes the squad cars and an ambulance and suddenly, my quiet street is awash in red and blue flashing lights. The spotlight of police-issued flashlights bounce off walls and windows and fuck it, I'm never gonna get to sleep because clearly this idiot tossed his stash. And the only person who could actually find a bag of meth shards in the snow in the dead of night is the junkie that tossed it. Unless he gets distracted by something shiny or Home Depot opens it's doors early with a two-for-one sale on mapp gas. So this arrest is going to take awhile.

The cops raise their voices a little and laugh at this kid (man?). My stomach immediately turns into something tight and tries to make it's way up my esophagus. My heartbeat does a giddyup and my hands are wet. This happens every time I'm around any sort of police activity. Too many years spent refilling my keg cup in the school parking lot? Too many times trying to take a hit from behind a sand dune? Too many unsafe lane change tickets? Whatever the reason, the presence of the police makes me nervous and anxious. I feel rank with guilt over something, anything and nothing.

I'm in bed (1:26 am) staring at the ceiling and wondering if Miss Perceived knows that some stranger is being arrested in front of her house. I feel my mind inching toward the accelerator (please, not tonight). What if the police don't find his baggy and a kid does? What if my kid does? Did Legal pre-set the coffee? Should I go downstairs and look? Does The Boy need a bagged lunch tomorrow or is it pizza day at school? If I fall asleep right now ...