It all started off with a few phone calls before a 10 a.m. meeting -- no big. But when I got home, I get a call from Mother, who's hysterical. See, she lives in a four-plex, and her downstairs neighbors? Batshit. crazy. Like, for example, when Mother moved in, BatshitCrazywoman told her that she's getting a huge worker's comp settlement from the railroad for an injury, but then in another conversation tells her that her BatshitCrazyhusband gave her the injury, PLEASE don't tell anyone. Oh, while she was borrowing $20 here and there to keep her household afloat. (Insurance PIs doing recon for railroad companies in the Chicagoland area? Give me a call.) Oh -- OH! -- nd let's not forget the time when BatshitCrazywoman, after Mother said she couldn't keep floating her $20 here and there, came up to Mother's crib with a paper bag and took back all the knick-knacky things she gave her upon moving in. And the few weeks last spring where someone was knocking on her door in the middle of the night, scaring the piss out of her. Anyway, yeah. Batshit. crazy.
Now see, I may piss and moan about Mother, but threaten her or anyone I love? You're going to deal with me, and as anyone who's ever had the misfortune of getting on the ass end of my ire will tell you, I don't stop until there's the proverbial bodycount. And today, I was hot.
So I march my big ol' hacked-off ass down to the police department to get the law on my side, but halfway through that, Mother calls and says she needs to go to take some pants to the cleaners; I leave my business card and tell them to call. While we were out, a squad or two shows up at Mother's crib and talks to the BatshitCrazies, who embellished the story a bit, of course. Long story short, the cops couldn't do anything because it was a civil dispute, which I figured, so they told them to stay away from Mother and filed an informational report. But being the total bullies they are, I'd bet my life that the BatshitCrazies weren't expecting the cops to show up. And if they think that's going to be the end of it, I dare them to say something to Mother. Anything. Even fucking "Hi."
It gets better: While I'm on the phone with the cop, I looked down at my desk, and I notice a white powder on the lower drawer that wasn't the consistency of either powdered sugar or salt. Now, I don't do no coke or tweak, but Cousin Nancy has friends who do, and she's stayed with me the past couple weekends.
You can kinda see where this is going, right!?!?
The first thing I did was taste the powder like a big dumbass; it tasted bitter and kinda vaguely had a smell, but nothing I could distinguish. So next, I called Nancy and asked her if she knew what it was, and she said that she might've been eating Pixie sticks while playing solitaire on the computer, but otherwise, she didn't know. Didn't sound like she was lying to me, but still ... So, after talking to Greta and Tara about what I should do, I call a
And as I started cleaning the litterbox so he and his kids wouldn't be freaked out by the smell, it dawned on me that the powder? Was carpet deodorizer, because remember, Nancy did a huge cleaning initiative the last time she was here, and the powder sitting at the bottom of the litterbox was the same consistency as that of the powder on my desk. And, I'm happy to say, the field test confirmed my suspicions; at the very least, it wasn't coke, and I'm not hella horny, so I'm guessing it ain't tweak.
What I'm not happy about is the fact that I jumped to the conclusion that Nancy brought crap into my house in the first place. I mean, the past couple weekends, she's been an absolute doll -- going with me to assignments and learning stuff -- and yet here I was ready to narc her out. How parents walk the fine line of trusting and letting their children go, I'll never get it.