I Am SO Jessica Fletcher!


Humongous bangs are not a welcome sound at 6:45.  (There is a perfectly filthy joke in there somewhere, but I’m too weary to find it. Apologies)

Gaping holes in your garden fence are equally distressing. As are ravaged shrubbery. (Again, a truly revolting dirty joke in there…but alas, weary.)

I saw her standing by the car door. I called out, “Are you okay?” She obviously was fine enough to flee the scene of an accident, since that’s what she did.

She didn’t leave me empty-handed though. I scraped a few paint chips off my broken fence boards, called my husband, and fumed my way through the day. The damage was minimal. I wasn’t upset about the bush, the fence, the scare. I was livid that she had run away, without taking responsiblity. My poor teenager endured a lengthy rant about the topic, all the way to school. My mother endured another after the children had been dropped off. I updated my Facebook status, took pictures, called the police. And fumed.

My husband came home and after tossing some leftovers in front of my children, I told him to get his sweet ass back in the car. We were going sleuthing. I totally got to be Velma, yo.

First thing, not even 5 minutes and a half block up the street, we turned into a cul-de-sac, finding a blue car with significant bumper damage. “Jinkies! That’s it!” I cried, then lost my glasses and asked a dog to find them.

Scratch Velma, that’s not how I roll.

We got out of the car, matched the paint chip and I photographed the front bumper and the license plate. My husband knocked on the door. (He’s all Benson, I’ve got Stabler Rage oozing from my pores.) He asked if they knew who the car belonged to and the woman was immediately bristling. Yes, she did, why did he want to know? I knew by the look on her face, her posture, everything was reading, “Oh hell no.” S’okay lady, I got a fair helping of that myself.

“Well that car crashed into my fence this morning.”

“My daughter’s car got hit in the parking lot at school today. She had the vice-principal come out and take a photo. We filed a police report.”

Then I grabbed the woman by the throat, cuffed her, shoved her against the wall and Mirandarized her ass.

No, I didn’t. I have all the rage, but none of the Stabler machismo. Damn my womanly vagina!

“My car was hit in the parking lot at school. I didn’t even go down Solano, I picked up Susie.” says the miscreant. 

“LIAR!” I screamed, “LIIIIAAAARRR!”  Sigh, I wasn’t Carol Kane in Princess Bride either. Even my exciting stories lack good characters.

My ever reasonable husband shrugged and said, “Well, we’ve got this all over our fence, and it matches your daughter’s car perfectly.”

“What do you want to do about this, ” Mom asks.

“Well, I don’t really want to file a police report on a hit and run.” I chimed in. (I actually did do that. )

So she came out of the house and looked at the paint chip, realized it was indeed from her daughter’s car and proceeded to tell us about how her daughter’s a 4.4, elected ASB president for next year, scholarships all lined up, so of course, she’s going to believe her first. Sure, lady, whatever. I’m pretty sure the cops won’t but we can go that route, if you so desire. Because in addition to the hit and run, your daughter filed a false report. Sort of sure that’s gonna have some reverb, if you know what I mean.

It gets better. Mom is a teacher at the high school. She follows us to our place to inspect the damage and apparently, Little Miss Hit n’ Run comes clean on the way over. Mom tells us this is her first big mistake, she’s such a great kid, she was late to pick up a friend, blah, blah, blah. Mom is concerned that this is going to get out at school. I would be too, lady. Not once, does the daughter apologize. That mendacious little twat sat in the car the entire time. Not once does the mother apologize. Her husband will fix our fence and work some horticultural voodoo on my bush. (HA! That one fucking wrote itself. Dirty jokes for the win!) We were neighborly and understanding, because we’re cool like that, but the minute I got inside, I began ranting about lame-ass parents and lying high school bitches and first. big. mistake. my. ASS!

Because if that woman honestly thinks she knows a fucking quarter of what her daughter pulls, she’s even crazier than I am. No kid is that good at constructing an alibi, first bull outta the chute. That kid involved her vice-principal and the police to cover that bonehead move up. Girlie got brass balls and stone cold eyes. She’s no first-timer.

Bonus Points: I made it through the night without wine or chocolate. Screw Stabler and Velma. I’m getting hot and gonna be Stephanie Plum. No more Lula for this chick.

4 responses »

  1. Thanks for sharing the new blog 🙂

    I’m glad I read this after your Facebook status last night, or my blood pressure would have been even higher.

    How is this woman a high school teacher and so blind to her own daughter’s sneakiness? That is crazy!!!! At least her father seems to have a handle on the situation.

    Last year my oldest rear-ended someone in the school parking lot. It was raining and she hit the brakes and the car didn’t stop. At least that is the story she and her passenger have stuck with. Did I immediately believe her? Hell no. Even a year later we ask questions to try and trip her up 🙂

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