Friday, February 25, 2011

Welcome to my neighborhood: where the police are plenty and the drug paraphernalia abounds!

Before I knew Big V existed on this planet he bought a house. This is the house I, along with my two girls, moved in to. After I met him, I mean. It's not like I just picked up my kids and made my way into some stranger's house, I mean, I was invited.
Anyway, Big V had been living with his parents and partaking in the whole I'll-live-in-your-basement-and-never-pay-you-rent-while-you-ignore-the-girl-sleeping-in-my-bed way of life when something snapped and he decided to buy a house. He probably figured it would be easier to keep girls in his bed without his mom walking in, so, two weeks later he bought the house.

He got a really great deal. Perhaps because of the house fire and the fact the homeowners did most the work themselves so they didn't need a lot of money from the sale to pay off pesky remodel bills. Or, perhaps because the police had incarcerated most of the previous tenants during a SWAT raid. (Less people to have to share the profits with.) Needless to say, it was a decent price. Big V was happy.

Except, Big V wasn't very familiar with the community. Or the fact this part of the community tends to have more than its share of shady characters. It's somewhat sad we've actually grown accustomed to waking up in the middle of the night to find police searching our back yard for some wayward criminal.

Last night around 11pm there was a loud noise. Bigger than a gunshot, yet less impressive than a meth lab explosion. I assumed an electric transformer blew and called it a night. But before drifting off to sleep I happened to notice police activity picked up a bit in our neighborhood. City police. County cars. The unmarked squad. I triple checked the locks on all the doors, took a peek in the back yard just in case, and chalked it up to just another night in the 'hood.

Then this morning I was backing out of the driveway and noticed a green plastic soda bottle laying near the bushes by the garage. Since Woodsy Owl taught me "Give a hoot! Don't pollute!" I put the car in park, hopped out, and picked up the creatively homemade drug paraphernalia from my front yard.

Homemade drug paraphernalia, say what?!

I was pretty certain I (literally) held a key piece of evidence from last night's criminal activity. Wait. I picked it up - now my prints were on it! I couldn't just toss it in the recycle bin; what if Mr. Recycle Man saw it and thought it was mine and called the police? I've never even used drugs (although many people believe that I should); they'll get a search warrant and dust it for prints and find my fingerprints on it and my kids will be taken away and I'll have to get a mug shot and then sit on that hard, concrete bench in the holding cell before being transferred to the Big Pen where I'd never get a decent night's sleep again because it will always be too cold and also they keep the lights on all the time and I can't sleep with the lights on. Sure, I could cover my eyes with the blanket but then I can't breathe because it gets so hot and suffocating and I feel like I'm going to smother to death so then I'll have to peek my head back out again and see the light and never fall back to sleep.

I quickly grabbed a plastic bag crammed in the side of my car door and put the sooty, half melted bottle inside, tied it up and headed to my nearest police department.

Can I help you?

(thrusting the bag in police officer's face) I found this on my property and it's not mine.

What is it?

I think it's a soda bottle someone used to smoke crack cocaine in. I mean, I know it's a soda bottle; I just don't know what was smoked in it. It could have been pot. Or heroin. I'm not sure. I'm not really 'up' on drug lingo. But I'm pretty sure it was used for drugs. I watch 'Intervention' on A&E a lot so I recognized it. 

Was it already in the Taco Bell bag?

Perhaps a bad choice in baggage. Regardless, the police told me they would increase patrol in our area.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Has any woman actually died from being a woman? Because it might be me.

I'm almost positive I've told you before that growing up I thought menstrual cramps was a big load of BS meant only to save weak, lazy high school girls from participating in gym class. My monthly torture lasted maybe 24 hours so I just didn't get it.

Then God spoke to me saying, "Stop being so judgmental!"

And I was all, "oh, puh-LEASE! She just wants attention."

Then God spoke further saying, "Just wait until I put you in your place, young lady."

Fast forward three kids and twenty years later and ohdeargodinheaven can I actually overdose on Midol? Because I'm thinking that's where this is headed. And guess what? I asked my Mom if she'd write a note excusing me from parenting today and she said no.

God wins.

** Sorry to the two male readers I have. Or used to have before they read this post. Come back in a few days and I'll be normal again. I promise. Well, not normal in the average societal definition of the word, but normal as in back to my strange self that you're used to and amazed by. Okay, maybe not amazed by... perhaps just entertained by. Or at the very least I'll be back to my standard operating level whereby you are continually reassured you could actually have it worse with the partner you have chosen to go through life with.

The Riot on the Bayou: MTV's way of letting me know I'm actually a pretty good parent.

Last night I accidently lost brain cells by getting sucked in to a show on MTV called "The Riot on the Bayou: My mother hates my boyfriend." The reality show followed the lives of Mama Tiff and Daddy Cain and their 4 children: Clint (19), Kathleen (18), April (17, and also the narrator of the episode) and Colette (16). They live in the bayou where it's legal to drink alcohol underage as long as you have your Mama's consent which means basically that all these kids were drunk the entire time.

Clint aspires to be a bull rider - he stayed up 2 seconds before he busted up his arm.

Clint: (several hours later) Why's it all green like that?
Mama: That's what happens when bones get broke. (walks out of room to refill beer)

Kathleen is pretty and all the guys like her. She used to date Nick but he was mean and treated her like crap and cheated on her so they broke up. Then they got back together after he saw her shaking her groove thang on stage at a local concert. Mama Tiff didn't like that at all because Nick was a jerk but everyone knows you can't stop true love. Then Kathleen cheated on Nick with Logan because I guess, in the bayou, you can love one person and kiss someone else.

Nick: Why'd you kiss him?
Kathleen: 'cause I was drunk!
Nick: But why'd you have to go make out with someone I got in a fight with?
Kathleen: 'cause I told you I was drunk!

Mama Tiff then hosted a party where both Nick and Logan would be in attendance and surely kick the snot out of each other. Don't worry, like any good mother she armed herself with a can of mace in case things got out of hand.

I could tell you more about the show, but the most important detail I want to get across to you is this: I could so be messing up my kids' lives worse than I already am.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Fiscal Responsiblity Prohibits Cool Vacuum Purchases

Obviously, you people don't know me because if you did you would know I'm not rich and therefore cannot afford a Dyson vacuum system and will be sweeping up the tumblehairs that amass throughout our house with the old fashioned straw broom I swiped from the janitor's closet at work. Just kidding. I didn't swipe anything from the janitor's closet at work because that would be stealing from the comppany and then I'd be fired and I need the health insurance so you might want to think twice about snagging those post-it notes on your way out. And also they don't even have old, twiggy brooms in there - they only have cool stuff. Trust me on this.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you'll have to pause for a second and read all about how vacuum cleaners hate me then you can come back and I'll tell you about how I posted that particular blog link to my facebook page and everyone was all you've just got to get yourself a Dyson! and now I'm all I really don't think remortgaging the house in order to obtain a vacuum cleaner is a responsible financial decision and also realizing I'm the poorest of all of my friends. (That's okay because I love them for who they are as a person; not the expensive wine they provide at Book Club.)

But getting back to that janitor's closet; although there were no straw brooms in there to steal, I found this:

 The Coolest Vacuum Ever!

And now I want one.
You probably want one now, too.