Sunday Edition 3/18/18
Funny story. I noticed the other morning that the Thanksgiving platter I store above my upper cabinets was sitting all cock-eyed. I climbed up to fix it and was surprised to find a small Ziploc bag containing a white powdery substance. I first thought it must be a baking ingredient one of my daughters had bagged for one reason or another, but it had no smell…or taste.
Yes, like a fool, I “expertly” dipped my pinky finger into it and tasted, just like I’ve seen hundreds of times in movies and on Law & Order.
I don’t know if it was a result of the toxins I ingested or what, but I started freaking out a bit. My brain went in a million directions, and I finally settled on the idea that my ex (who has no history of this type of thing) had planted drugs in my house with the intention of framing me.
I debated whether to make a preemptive call to the police, but didn’t have the direct number for the officer I wanted. So, I called his cousin, who also happens to be my best friend Mandy. She’s very wise, and I knew her advice would be solid.
We hashed it over, and she finally suggested I should start by calling each of my adult kids to see if they knew anything about it.
With a heavy heart, I called my oldest son first. Medical students, I reasoned, often become addicted when trying to survive the stress of school. No matter what, I would let him know I am here for him, and together we would figure it out.
Me: “Have you by chance stored a white powdery substance on top of my kitchen cabinets?”
Me: “Well, I found this Ziploc bag, but it doesn’t have a smell or taste, and I don’t know how it got here.”
He: “You tasted it? Mom! Is your tongue numb? Send me a picture of what you found. You can’t just taste stuff when you don’t know what it is.”
We discussed at length, and then duly reprimanded, I called my middle daughter. It made sense that she could have left it behind when she recently moved into her own apartment. I was hesitant because it was her 21st birthday, and I didn’t want to falsely accuse her of being a drug user. Plus, would she even tell me the truth? I had to trust that our positive mother/daughter relationship would pay off, and she would let me get the professional help she needed.
Me: “Happy Birthday, sweetheart!! Sorry I didn’t call sooner.”
She: “Thank you! It’s kind of weird you’re calling now though. I have class.”
Me: “Well, I have a little question. Not a big deal, I just need to know…have you by chance stored a white powdery substance on top of my kitchen cabinets? It doesn’t have a smell or taste.”
She: “Oh my gosh, mom! Did you actually taste that?”
Me: “Why?! What is it?!?!”
She: “It’s the Borax Mandy gave me last summer to make ant killer. You ate Borax.”
All I could think was that my dear daughter would someday be telling about her tragic 21st birthday, when her mom climbed up on the counter, ate Borax, accused her dad of planting drugs, and then dropped dead.
Somehow, I managed to survive both the ingestion of a toxic substance, and the shocking realization that my BFF is a Borax dealer. Thank god, I’ve raised mature, responsible children who know not to eat laundry detergent, and will store it safely away from their younger siblings. I guess she should have stored it a little higher if she wanted to keep it away from her mom.
Syndicated columnist Ginger Claremohr is an author, motivational speaker, and mother of five. Follow her on Facebook, find her on the web: www.claremohr.com, or contact firstname.lastname@example.org.
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