I told Mother I would take her to pick up her prescription after Headcase and I went to pick up her cell phone from the bar -- we'd be back about 4-ish. Mother tells me fine, she was going to take a nap. Well, Headcase and I got back a little early, so I decided I needed a nap. The nap lasted until about 6, so I called Mother to apologize and that I would pick her up right away. She starts giving me the business about did I drive to South Haven to pick up the keys, as if Pimp is HER car, not mine, but I gritted my teeth and got her. Then she gets in the car and starts going on about how Crazy Aunt has her phone number and how would I feel if she gave out my number to anyone she felt like -- even though Mother had to coordinate with Crazy Aunt and Uncle about moving some of her furniture and cleaning out Dad's toolshed when she moved THREE YEARS AGO -- so I tell her in my annoyed, indoor voice that I would ignore any of that rant because I didn't know what she was talking about.

Long story short, she's frustrated because she doesn't drive and has to wait for her friend Yolanda or me to pick her up, and I can appreciate that. It's just that she then goes into how she doesn't know what purpose her life has and that she should've died instead of Dad, etc., etc., etc. So I told her if she really felt that way, no one's stopping her, to which she says that she wishes she could, blah blah blah blah, wonk wonk wonk wonk.

Before anyone tells me how inappropriate my response was and that I suck, keep in mind that this is a woman who is clinically depressed and that although she takes several medications to combat it, she does not go to therapy. Instead of dealing with the changes that are unquestionably horrible for her and trying to make the best of it, she would rather piss and moan and feel helpless, and that's also fine -- until she starts pulling the "I wish I were dead" card on me, which she has for all of my adult life. Believe me when I tell you it is unbelievably painful to have that put on you when you know that any effort you make to help her feel better is not going to work, because she would rather continue what she knows (pissing and moaning and being waited on) than change it and feel better about herself. You tell me what you would do.
Oh, whatEVER.

Well, today, Mother was downstairs in the laundry room, and she takes a look in her storage closet and finds that the shovel and rake that she brought from the house, which were in pristine condition, were replaced by some beaten-up old crap. So she goes to ask BatshitCrazies if they know where her stuff is. And BatshitCrazywoman -- who, might I add, was about to be evicted from the building because a) they're batshit crazy and b) they have trouble keeping up with the rent much of the time -- tells Mother she's going to call her attorney on her, and goes into the next room with the phone. Mother then begs them not to call the attorney and leaves, instead calling me all hysterical.

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 former boyfriend who had the hardest hard-on I think I've ever encountered friend of mine who happens to be a County Mountie, and tell him that I have a strange powder in my office and that while I was confident it wasn't anthrax, I wasn't confident that it wasn't some sort of dope that I don't want in my crib. He asked me if I tasted it and called me a dumbass when I told him I did, and then he asked me if I were either really lightheaded (coke) or really horny (tweak), to which I was like maybe kinda lightheaded, but I'd also taken my Ritalin today with a giant cup of coffee. (Didn't tell him that part, but yeah, shut-up. Nothing wrong with adult ADHD. I'm not a freak.) He said as soon as his daughter got off the bus, he'd be over with a field test kit.

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.
Oh, whatEVER.