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...in which we learn that  life can suck in totally unexpected ways...

I am a suspected terrorist. I warn you of this at the outset, because you see, in the new climate of national security, if you continue reading past this point, you will be associated with a suspected terrorist. That means that when you are arrested or detained or even looked at funny by the police, the press can, with no prevarication whatsoever, write that you are “known to associate with suspected terrorists.” Which of course we all know, means that you are a suspected terrorist too. Which then means that anyone who doesn’t read this article, but who knows YOU, will also now be known to associate with a suspected terrorist, which means that everyone you know, and everyone they know, and so on, are all suspected terrorists. Still with me? Okay, so now that we know that everyone in the world, including your great-aunt Enid and your cousin who is in a coma, is a suspected terrorist, we can proceed. (Unless, of course, we take this to its logical conclusion, which is that the only people you are safe with, the only people who are positively NOT suspected terrorists…. Are people who live in cabins in the middle of the woods, or in caves, and don’t watch television or read western press…like for instance NRA nuts, or Branch Davidians, or the Unibomber… but I digress.)

 But enough about you, you terrorist. By writing about you I only make you stronger. Back to me. Last night, in order to do my bit to strengthen the economy, I went to get a facial. This is not the story of that facial. This is the story of after the facial – the après facial story, as it were.

I arrived home that night to find three police cars, along with the six policemen that came with the police cars, lined up in front of my house. Well, lined is probably not the right word. One was in my driveway, and two were blocking the street in front of my house in that slewed sideways way that implies things were so drastic that the cars came screaming down the street and there was no time to properly park them before the policemen in them leapt out to stand around – the stolen bases of car parking. The lights were all flashing importantly, which was good because all the policemen were standing around like schlubs. One of them waved a flashlight at me in a delusatory sort way, a ‘move along’ kind of way, ignoring the fact that I was at the end of a dead-end street. We had a little stand off for a bit, the three police cars and six policemen and me and my Geo Metro, until one of the policemen suddenly seemed to realize that I was still there.

 He came sauntering over, and as he came, and I swear on all that is holy that this is true, he actually hitched up his pants and gunbelt just like they do in those movies of the week where some redneck sheriff arrests some dumb white guy from the big city for something stupid and makes him cook the books for the corrupt prison warden. If I were a dumb white guy and this weren’t the suburbs,  I’d have been worried.  He leaned into my window, shone his huge flashlight in my face (despite me being parked under a streetlight and clearly visible) and asked if he could help me. I told him that he was blocking the driveway to my house, to which he responded, and again I swear this is true “Do you reside at this here residence, ma’am?” Yes siree, I sure do reside at that residence.

 And suddenly there was shouting, and much waving of arms and flashlights and rushing about, and I was instructed to more or less simultaneously freeze, put my hands on the dash, and get out of the car.  I decided the wisest course of action was to continue sitting in the car, with my hands clearly visible on the steering wheel, where they had been ever since I stopped the car. After more discussion, I found myself out of the car, sitting on the curb in front of my house.

There’s a lot more to the story here, involving much hitching up of pants, some swaggering, a little spitting, and much waving of penis-substitute flashlights, but it’s just too clichéd to write down. At the end of it all, I discovered that the reason I was sitting on the curb was that we were waiting for the bomb squad to arrive. The bomb squad? You ask? Yes, indeed, the bomb squad. Why? Because my husband, who was out of town for the weekend, had left the door to his workshop open. And in his workshop my husband makes movie props. This being Los Angeles, his occupation is not unusual. He was working, at that particular time, on developing a realistic-looking fake grenade for use in WWII movies. His most recent prototypes, sitting on a shelf in his workshop, were apparently quite successful.

 The bomb squad arrived, in their big white bomb squad van with the lights on top and “Bomb and Arson Investigation” in big letters on the side, just in case my neighbors were planning on ever speaking to me again. But lo and behold! The head of the bomb squad was a woman, a little tiny blond woman. A little tiny blond woman who ignored the dozen sheriffs standing around and asked me what was going on. I explained. She gathered the 12 sheriffs around her and we all went to look at my husband’s shop. She picked up the prototype grenade and looked at it carefully. She clenched her teeth. I rejoiced, silently. She turned, very slowly, to the assembled paragons of law enforcement. She spoke, very slowly, like the driver of the short bus: “We live, and work, in Los Angeles. As such, we often encounter people who work in the entertainment industry. It is our job to be able to recognize the difference between real and not-real.” She held up the prototype and angrily pulled the pin. The officers shrank back, and several of them let out little involuntary yips of alarm. She continued, at a pretty amazing volume for such a small person: “THIS is a PROP! Any one of you should have been able to recognize this at 20 yards! What the hell is wrong with you people? You drag me out here in the middle of the night, I found an innocent person sitting on the curb freezing her ass off while you all stand around like cattle, and it’s all over a bunch of plastic grenades!…” It went on. I was in awe. I have a new hero.