During a relaxed evening of “Dancing With the Stars” at Mom and Dad’s house (They love it! Have you seen this show?), I brought up the Frontline presentation that I recently TiVoed about the crystal meth epidemic in America. I mentioned the “time release” photos of people over the years, and the toll that crystal had taken on their appearance, their lives, their very souls.
I remember from rehab, the “numbers” for meth addicts were very bad — the recovery rate is abysmal for folks that are addicted to this particular drug. It really just steals your life away, and makes you feel like there’s nothing but the drug worth living for. I worry about my friends from the program who struggle with “Tina,” she’s a killer.
I sort of mumbled (as the dancing started again) that I was so thankful I had never liked meth. Truth be told, I am much more of a downer fan than an upper one. I like euphoria as much as the next person, but 18 hours of it? I would pull my hair out. I will take a nice mellow Percoset over cocaine any day. Poppers? Nope. Red wine and lots of it? Bring it on. But that’s me. Course, I ain’t takin’ a-none of those things anymore. Just occasionally thinking of them with the heavy heart of a jilted lover — we only remember the good stuff.
Mind you, I am sitting with my PARENTS when I make this observation (never LIKED meth, not never DID meth), which leads to a very relaxed, “Oh, you’ve tried crystal meth?” from my father. Thinking it will help somehow (like nail polish remover on a paper cut), I assure him and my mother (sitting nearby), “Oh, I was really young.”
Nice. Really young. Like when I was living in your house. In high school even. Probably one night when I was out in one of the vehicles that you owned. In fact, I then got complete verbal diarrhea and decided to fumble around the story of the ill-fated New Years’ Eve with friends who talked for 9 hours straight while I just sort of held on for dear life and waited for the Scrambler to stop and let me off. Felt a lot like that moment when I was slipping around on the ice of “these are my parents, not my friends!” even though they are two of my favorites. Funny line you walk when you are in your thirties and really enjoy the ‘rents. I still need to remember that I was their little Ruby Dooby Doo one day and that they probably still think of me that way.
After I finished my verbal shit-fest (having made absolutely no sense, progress or difference), I looked over at my mother. Just like the photos on Frontline, she had sort of grayed out and aged about 40 years.
That Lisa Rinna (who my ex-roommate affectionately calls Baby Fish-Mouth) got robbed, huh? ROBBED.