How Sweet! The Children Are Learning to Bake….Bake Their Mother

Dedicated to Mary J – a million thanks.  Here’s your special request.

The Statute of Limitations is still 7 years right?  God, I hope so.  Seven years ago, June 2008, I came home from work and was doing my usual clean up run of our frat house:  collecting dozens of cups, bowls cemented with mac & cheese & other mystery funghi, disinfecting counters, picking up socks that smelled like swamp ass – oh, the usual.  I didn’t know what the hell went on while I was at work, when my 3 children were supposed to be in school all day.  I can tell you this much, I scored some nice designer shit in my son’s room, none of which belonged to either of my girls. 

It’s fair to say, I had put blinders on.  My then husband, the mailman, had been off delivering more than mail….so we were basically cohabitating by then.  He was boot legging limoncello with his cover up boy, Denise.  While mailman was making limoncello,  a couple of my children and their friends were becoming very adept at baking.

I remember I was vacuuming and opened the fridge for a drink and lo and behold was a plate of chocolate chip cookies.  BIG ones.  Unless you’re allergic to chocolate chip cookies, I don’t know of anyone of sane mind who would pass one up.  Although they had a big note, ‘DO NOT EAT’ and sealed with that crappy saran wrap (I am a Press ‘n Seal girl now), I took one.  My house, my fridge, my cookies.  I just about took the last bite when my son came flying through the kitchen and ripped the last crumb right out of my hands.  I believe he berated me as well like I was a child.  As I said, I was baked.  I didn’t even have the wherewithal to question the why. I didn’t care.  I just wanted everyone to leave me the hell alone.

Well, after our awkward family dinner with me bursting my husband into flames in my mind, I was setting up to give my two girls manicures and pedicures; one for high school graduation, and the other for middle school promotion ceremony.  No sooner do I bend over to start doing their toes, I’m going down.  By down, I mean my heart started racing, I was crawling across the floor, everything was swirling, and couldn’t catch my breath.

The mailman made no attempt to help or revive me.  I’m pretty damn sure he was ticking off his winnings while I was propped up against the kitchen sink cabinet just like in a Weekend At Bernie’s.  ‘I get the house, cars, kids (they’re out of diapers? yea, I think so), boat, my pension, 3 life insurance policies.  Shit!  I’m just gonna watch for a little while and let nature take its course.’ After about a half hour, the bastard finally relented and called 911, and I scored me a ride on the Post 53 teen party bus to the hospital. When asked by the baby-in-training EMT what my symptoms were I said I may have had a panic attack, never having one before, never having another one again because simply put, I was just stoned.

Apparently, they took me at my word because I was left on a gurney in the hallway of the ER while the mailman was pacing or outside talking on his cell phone to his girlfriend and making my funeral arrangements.  One thing mailman didn’t do was come anywhere near me.  He was not happy.  Since I was left to my own devices and my brain started re-booting, the light bulb went off and inside that bulb was “the cookie.”  In 2008, I had a flip phone….you know the ones you have to hit 3 times for an F, 2x for a U, 2x for a C, 2x for a K. At that point, I began texting my children, “What the hell was in the cookie! What WAS IN THE GOD DAMN COOKIE?!?!” I was screaming via text message to all the little bastards in my residence.  No one replied.  Do they ever even when you’re paying their f’ing cell bill?  As I understand it (truth comes out in dribs and drabs years later for fear of retaliation), there was a fleet clean up of the contraband while I was doing time on a gurney.

I was released without having any blood work done because I would’ve had to explain the THC level in my blood then go home a beat some kids.  Do you know what it’s like living in a small town?  Everyone knows what you’re doing before you know what you’re doing.

I went to work the next day.  It was only 7 damn 30 in the A of M and my boss had already heard about my little field trip to the ER from one of our employees, a volunteer fireman.  The same volunteer who made sure he was at the front entrance upon my arrival  and says, “What happened Barb-bar-ite? making the tweet tweet sounds along with the bird wing gesture like, “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”  My boss took one look at me and told me to take the day off.  I didn’t share the specifics with him that day because I needed to do a little recon on my family.

Meet the bakers:  My youngest daughter, the middle schooler, was used for her academic achievement in mathematics and measuring.  Mind you the others involved were all high school graduates at the time (so much for those CMT’s, CAPT tests).  The cannibus butter was prepared on the mailman’s Coleman camp stove in our back yard while I was at work and when they were SUPPOSED TO BE AT SCHOOL.  A few days after the “incident,” I was cleaning out my refrigerator and found a container that looked like bacon fat but it was green and smelled like skunk.  I threw it away.  Unbeknownst to me, it was the last of the evidence, and I got yelled at for tossing the liquid gold.  Imagine the nerve of that shit?

There’s more.  There’s always more.  I read this to my 87.5 year old Father tonight to cheer him over his pen pal’s death, Yogi Berra.  Since he has ZERO filter and has mortified me with his off color remarks on numerous occasions, I figured I’d return the favor by giving his defibrillator a little jump start.  If he wasn’t vertical, you’d have sworn he was dead with the jaw locked in that open position.  He won’t be coming downstairs tonight for any cookies or ice cream.

The Lesson:  Never talk smack about anyone’s kids.  Ever.  I will personally guarantee karma will come back and bite you in the ass.