Prison Is No Place For A Lady

FAIR WARNING: ADULT CONTENT BELOW

In honor of my Halloween costume, here is the story that inspired it!

Short version: I was arrested for public drunkenness on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, LA and went to prison. They made me wear an orange jumpsuit that said INMATE down the side and my cell mates were murderers and they kept me for 24hours and my cell mates yelled at me to stop crying.

Will's version: Maux talked back to a cop.

Long version: See below.

Many of you have not heard from me in several days, and you may have been thinking to yourselves, 'It's not like Mo to be so quiet, she must be having so much fun in New Orleans for Jazz Fest, good for her!'

Wrong.

Turns out, no respectable weekend in the Big Easy is complete without spending some time in prison, and that's exactly where I was. I was in PRISON, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that said INMATE down the side...but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I think things might have started off down the wrong track (right track? wrong track? Sometimes it's so hard to tell the difference) straight from the airport, after my cousin Beth and I were picked up by my friends, Suzanne (fellow travel nurse I met in Seattle) and George (her husband, native to NOLA). Those of you who were at my "Sink the Houseboat" Halloween party will surely remember them. They own a condom company and were the ones giving away porno DVD's and sex toys as treats. They are the best possible tour guides for a weekend of debauchery in NOLA.

We went straight to the DRIVE THRU daiquiri stand, where I soon had a 32 oz Long Island Iced Tea frozen daiquiri in my hot little hands. Double shot. For those of you less familiar with drive-through bars, 32 oz is the Super Size, and about the same size as a Nalgene water bottle. I had two.

Note to self: On Sundays, the gallon size is only $17.00

Legal clarification: It is LEGAL to drink daiquiri's in your car in New Orleans as long as you are drinking out of a straw.

The night proceeded from there in normal New Orleanian style, and before long we found ourselves at Pat O'Briens, the famous piano bar in the French Quarter on Bourbon Street, drinking a disgusting Hurricane and dancing to some zydeco music. I know it's touristy and thus wrong, but it was Bethie's virgin voyage into NOLA, and we thought an obligatory stop in the French Quarter was in order. Preservation Hall, birthplace of Jazz music, was our intended destination, but the dueling pianos at Pat O'Brien's proved a siren call impossible to ignore.

In the interest of full disclosure, let's talk about what I was wearing. I was wearing the same silver and gold plaid romper I wore to the Yacht Rock party and a fairly high pair of platform wedge shoes. For those of you who do not know what a romper is, number one: I pity you, and number two: it is an article of clothing that conveniently and fashionably combines your top and your bottoms into one, perfect for romping around. This particular romper was composed of a strapless top attached to a pair of short shorts. I have always been a classy dresser, and this was no exception. I was accessorizing with a pair of sunglasses detailing two breasts with silver rhinestones for nipples bursting out of a black lace bra. My outfit communicated to the world: this girl is here to party!

Yes. That is my leg in the air.

I was already drunk when I got dressed, hence the necklace that doesn't quite match but is fun because it's enormous. Don't judge. In the past I have struggled with admitting that I am intoxicated when something bad happens, hoping in some small way to reclaim my dignity by pretending that I was sober and thus a victim not an instigator (Claiming I was sober when I fell down the stairs at Rachel's wedding and broke my foot, I'm looking at you).

I'm not going to lie here: I was drunk, bottom line. However, when you examine my level of drunkenness comparatively in the company of Bourbon Street- easily the drunkest street in America- my intoxication is nothing but a small puppy. A small puppy walking around bumping into things is cute, isn't it?

Was I wasted enough not to be fit for the streets? Debatable.

Let's put it to a poll.

Is this person unfit for the streets?

I think she looks pretty interesting and if I saw her on the street I would

a. want her romper

b. want to be her friend

NOT

c. arrest and torture her.

The details are a little vague (translation: there are moments of blackness), but we find ourselves leaving Pat O'Brien's in a little bit of a huff because the couple sitting next to us wanted us all to sit down quietly and stop dancing. Apparently these people were unaware that they were on Bourbon Street in New Orleans on Jazz Fest weekend? Apparently they were unaware that they unwittingly sat down next to me, known to literally swing from chandeliers and scurry up ceiling beams like the acrobat I am when whipped into a dancing frenzy. It was calmly suggested to our table that we might leave, and we calmly obliged, too cool for that touristy place anyway.

There we were, just standing in the street discussing the matter calmly with the doorman at Pat O'Brien's. George is engaging the manager in a discussion of economics; consider how many drinks have been purchased by our table, and can reasonably be assumed to continue being purchased at the same rate and speed, compared to the two drinks on the elderly couple's table. If you follow that proof through to the conclusion, the answer is that, reasonably speaking, they should be asked to leave, not us. This advice was not going over well.

From the swampy bayou mist, two police men enter the scene.

Before anyone knows what happened (ok, I'm sure someone somewhere knows), George is in handcuffs across the street. Bethie, Suzanne, and I, like women everywhere whose male chaperone has just been handcuffed, start pacing, panicking and fretting. I make the fatal mistake of walking over to where George and the police are standing. I just had to get involved. I just had to try and reason with the officers. Before you can say Pirates Alley I find myself wearing charm bracelets as well.

At this point you are saying to yourself, 'Cut the crap, Mo. What did you really do?' Anyone who has actually been to Bourbon Street is rightfully incredulous.

No one wants to believe that I literally walked out the door of Pat O'Brien's and into a pair of handcuffs. I know it is hard to believe this innocent portrayal of my behavior, but it is true. I thank you for the high regard you have of me. However, this was a random act. A random act I tell you! I had never been arrested before. To quote Garth Brooks, "It was bound to happen, and one night it did." It could have been Bethie, it could have been Suzanne, but it was my time to go.

Let's quickly cut back to Will's interpretation of events: "She sassed a police officer, that's what happened." Will wasn't even there.

A police officer, using the chain between my handcuffs to swing me around, indelicately placed me in the back of his squad car and took me down to the OPP: Orleans Parish Prison. I remained in the handcuffs for about two hours, being moved from room to room and cold metal bench to cold metal bench by a gruff, angry, post-Katrina traumatized police officer grabbing my handcuffs and dragging my stumbling person around. I was NOT DOWN with the OPP.

I was a ridiculous spectacle of shimmery short-shorts romper, platform shoes, mascara all over face. A crying, blubbering mess asking anyone who might pay attention to her why she was being arrested. They removed the handcuffs briefly to make me put on an orange prison jumpsuit that said INMATE down the front and back. Normally a romper / jumpsuit combo would excite me, but not so much in this particular circumstance. (A further note to those who didn't know what a romper was: a jumpsuit is like a romper, but traditionally with long sleeves and pants). During this time I get the first glimpse of my cut, bleeding, and bruised wrists. My crying increases somewhat (read: I am hysterical and now start yelling that my grandpa is a judge).

They put me back in the handcuffs and I wait around some more. I repeatedly tell police officers that I am a nurse and "just trying to come down here to help, I have a job interview, don't you know you have a nursing shortage, and this is how you treat me?! huh, huh?!" By job interview I meant that I was going to drive past Tulane University and Tulane Medical Center and check them out.

"You're drunk," the police officer replied disgustedly to one of my outbursts. "ISN'T THAT THE POINT OF BOURBON STREET?!" I shouted back. This behavior resulted in the prisoner population of Central Booking cheering, whooping and hollering, but it won me no favors with the side of the room armed with guns, badges, and the keys to my handcuffs. Either way, I felt a little better. I felt like a revolutionary leader of the People.

By now it was about 2 am and they decide they don't really want to do anything with me until the morning. They remove my cuffs and let me in to the sleepover party that is Central Lockup, Orleans Parish Prison. Allow me to educate you a little about Orleans Parish Prison. A simple google search revealed to me that this is, in fact, the deadliest prison in the U.S. I wear this fact with a perverse sort of pride. It wasn't the easiest way for me to earn street cred, but that's the way street cred goes.

Click HERE to read the article titled: Death Rates at Orleans Parish Prison Ranks Near Top.

This is where the story takes an ugly turn. But also, in a sick way, this is where the story begins to get really good (Rachel is thinking to herself that the story took an ugly turn back when I put that romper on). The room is small and stereotypically prison-esque: cement walls and floor, several metal benches, poor lighting, the obligatory bars at the front of the cell, and three small metal toilets flagrantly out in the open. My cellmates are CRAZY. Cra-ha-azy. Wild eyed homeless women, violent women, drug addicted women, women lacking a full set of teeth, women who smell bad. I have never found myself in worse company, and I tend to get around. There are about a dozen of us in the female side of central lockup. The male side, where I have glimpsed the also-incarcerated George, is packed full with about 60-something men.

I pace around crying and hugging myself for a couple minutes, then put myself to bed on a metal bench, curled up into a ball inside the shirt of my oversize jumpsuit, because it is freezing cold. I wake up at 7:30am, partly because they said they would let me out at 8am, and partly because there is the familiar feminine sensation of, 'Holy Shit! I think I just got my period.'

It's true. I did.

And it was getting all over my gold and silver Topshop romper underneath my prison jumpsuit. What fresh hell is this? Waking up hungover in prison is a rather disconcerting experience. You have to ask yourself: Wait, What the Hell Am I Doing In Prison? What the Hell Happened Last Night? Then you have to contend with your favorite romper being ruined.

As I rose into a sitting position, one of my fellow cellmates looked over and said, "Oh look the hellcat's awake. White girl. Cryin' all night, shiiiiit." I nod at her wearily. As discretely as possible I clean myself up and fashion a pad out of toilet paper. During this time I was still trying to put together all the details of what happened the night before. Like a fairy tale, I find a note in my pocket from Beth.

I lean on the bars and try desperately to get the prison nurse's attention. I cringe remembering scenes from the night before. I pace around nervously. The nurse refuses to give me a tampon or pad. Apparently they think I will be able to fashion a weapon, a shim perhaps, from the cardboard tampon applicator and escape. In an interesting side note, one of the nurses was easily 450 pounds and absolutely the fattest person I have ever seen in my entire life. George concurs. So I sit and wait. 8am goes by. I take a drink from the rusty water fountain in our cell and one of the prisoner ladies tells me, "I sure wouldn't do that if I was you...people doing nasty shit to that water fountain." Thus ending the first and last hydration I am given for the entirety of my stay with the Louisiana Prison system.

I wait.

9 am goes by.

10am goes by.

I lay down again in my little space on the bench and the woman whose butt my head is closest to says, "Watch out girl, I got real bad gas."

I wait.

11am goes by.

The sheriffs patrolling this little section of hell on earth treat the prisoners coolly. They do not acknowledge that we exist. They do not make eye contact with you, they do not listen when you call out "Excuse me, excuse me" from the bars of the cell when they walk past. No one tells me what is going on. I have still not been officially booked. I'm not even sure exactly what I've been arrested for. Lady Justice, where are you?

I wait.

Something itches me in my bra and I reach in to find 60 dollars and my drivers license. Apparently I was hiding these things from the police officers last night. Clever move. A memory surfaces of Bethie and Suzanne emptying my pockets of lip gloss, cell phone, and camera for me while I stand incredulously handcuffed by the side of a police car right before the officer threw me in the back saying, "Let's go cupcake."

Noon comes and goes.

Lunch comes- it is a baloney sandwich. I wanted to eat it, because I knew it would add just one more disgusting link in this story chain, even more street cred: "I ate a baloney sandwich in prison and liked it." But I could not make myself do it. When George and I compare notes later, he says he didn't want to eat the sandwiches either, he wanted to be like the Hurricane, "Refuse everything they offer."

I am now regretting that I do not have the ability to say I've eaten prison food.

I wait.

1pm.

Nothing happens.

It is not until two in the afternoon... 2PM!... that they finally take me out of the cell and over to the booking agent, where they book me for public drunkenness FOURTEEN HOURS after first arriving at the station. Hmmm...arrested at 11 pm April 30th......I wonder if these kind officers had quotas to fill? Officer Spooner, of the New Orleans Police Department, I shall remember your name.

Sheriff: "Why haven't you been booked?"

(Maux, to self: Oh, I'm sorry, was that my responsibility? Am I both sheriff AND prisoner?)

Maux, as surly as possible: "I don't know."

Sheriff, frowning: "And you've just been sitting in there this whole time?"

(Maux, to self: Um, hello yes I've been sitting here this whole fucking time!)

Sheriff: "You should be released in about an hour."

I soon realize that "you should be released in about an hour" is just something cute that sheriff's say to fuck with you. She takes my mug shot picture, and I am able to stop crying long enough to glare at the camera.

I'm proud of how pathetic I look in this picture.

After getting booked ('This is just like Law & Order,' I think to myself 'where the hell is ICE-T with the evidence? I sure wouldn't mind seeing some Eliot Stabler.') I get my phone call. I call Bethie & Suzanne, who, even though they met only hours before we were arrested, have embarked on a Free Mo & George project together all night and day.

"I think I'm getting out in an hour," I say

= Famous Last Words.

George, on the other hand, never got a phone call. His was revoked when he was caught talking to me through the bars; a mutual exchange of "what the fuck is happening to us?" After the phone call I tried to sit down on the chairs and pretend like I belonged out there with the sheriffs, but they put me back in the cell. It was probably my inconspicuous neon orange jumpsuit that gave me away. This is when I had what can be termed a minor breakdown. Having to go back into the cell made me feel very powerless.

"I hate these nasty ladies. We should just kill everyone in prisons because they are nothing but trouble," I thought to myself, not realizing that at the moment that included me and that sentiment is also known as genocide. I literally wanted to kill everyone in my sight. I felt like I was having trouble expanding my chest for deep breaths. What happened next was so perverse and crazy I was able to imagine myself looking down on the scene from above and I had to admit that I would find it humorous, so that calmed me down a little bit. Sometimes a prison bitch just needs to get yelled at to put things in perspective.

Picture this: There I am, clutching the grimy prison bars with both hands, sobbing, my little shoulders in my oversized INMATE jumpsuit quivering. My cellmates form a semi circle around me, and some of them start yelling at me to stop crying. They divide themselves into two camps: those who are yelling at me to stop crying, and those who feel sympathy for me.

The yelling camp:"What the hell you cryin' bout white girl, you in here for public drunkaness, I in here fo murda!"

and

"You only just got here, shiiieat I been in this room since Monday."

The sympathy camp:

One woman, who by her outfit I guess is a prostitute (the jumpsuits were actually hard to come by but much appreciated because prisons are freezing), nicely rubs my back to console me while another woman with tattoos on her neck tells the others, "Leave her alone, it's her first time, she jus' scared."

I decide I like the lady who rubbed my back, and I take naive comfort in the fact that the sheriff said I was going to be released soon.

Then, as if we don't have enough problems, some crack gets smuggled into our cell. Oh, you heard me, I said CRACK.

Mo' prisoners, mo' problems! The main prison is upstairs, and male inmates do janitorial work down here in the booking and processing center. One lady, who has ripped out a piece of the weave in her hair and has been waving it around and pacing all over the cell while simultaneoulsy scratching furiously at her crotch (and not from outside the pants, but with her hand deep inside her pants) and telling another cell mate of ours (they all seem to know each other and know the names of the guards) how much her "pussy is killin' me all the time, but not when I fuckin." This was all charming. I contemplate offering medical advice ("Umm, you're fucking disgusting") but decide against it since I can see how exposing myself as a nurse might lead to an ugly chain of events involving breast exams or STD counseling. The itchy woman tells the janitor/prisoner that we need toilet paper. It's true. The toilet paper is gone, these other women not being shy about using the communal toilets. And when I say they were not shy, trust me that I mean, with grave seriousness, They.Were.Not.Shy.

Apparently, asking for more toilet paper is prison code for: Please, Sir, Smuggle Us Some Mothafuckin Crack. I witness the male janitor prisoner pull a flattened roll of toilet paper from his pants and pass it through the bars. My cellmates scurry to the toilet area, which is partially obscured from view to people, such as police officers and sheriffs, in the cavernous main room. They miss all of this since they never pay enough attention to us in the first place. We're just a wild pack of human beings in a cage. I watch as they remove the crack paraphanelia, lighter included, from within the smooshed toilet paper roll, and all of them smoke it in front of me. Note to self: crack smells nasty. I contemplate telling the guard so I can earn good brownie points and get released, but reason that since I am locked in a cage with these women they will probably kill or harm me first. With respect for the prisoner code of ethics and honor, I keep quiet.

"Huh, so this is what it looks like to be on crack," I think as I take it all in. They run around the cell, screaming loudly, ripping off their jumpsuits, and yelling obscene sexual obscenities at the guards. They lean on each other with comraderie and laugh hysterically at nothing. Some pass out. They take bites of the baloney sandwiches lying about and spit them at the walls. Some of them dance. It is while watching one of my favorite prison ladies crip walk across the cell with her eyes half closed that I have a vision.

What if I could get these women choreographed into a dance routine, like the Phillippino prisoners doing "Thriller" on You Tube? We are all wearing the same orange jumpsuits they wear. Alicia later suggests the song should have been Beyonce "Single Ladies" for obvious reasons. I don't have enough enthusiasm to actually do it though. This brief fantastical reverie is the only joy within this whole ordeal. Otherwise, I alternate between despair / crying / longing for freedom and strong / noble / proud "keep your head up and survive" mentality. I stare at my bruised wrists and imagine the looks I will see on my patients faces back at work as I lean over their children and respond to queries as to how that happened when I say, "Oh, just handcuffs."

I have never been more bored or felt like I was wasting more time IN MY LIFE. I just sat there all day: no books, no cell phone, no texting, no computer, no friends. I say to my prostitute friend: "I thought prisons had libraries, I thought prisoners read books, like even encyclopedias, all the time? Why hasn't a library cart come past?" I spend long hours fantasizing about a bath tub, about pizza, about warm sun on my warm free skin. I found myself humming the Paul Simon song with the lyrics "they...shackled myyyahhhh hannnnds" (Adios Hermanos).

I spend a lot of time feeling disappointed in myself. This seems to be the pinnacle experience of "If you can't be a good example, be a horrible warning." My self esteem suffers. When I tell Maggie about this ordeal later, she says, "I know you feel badly about this now, but there is a part of you that is glad it happened because you're going to write such a funny story about it." I have to admit this is true. The only consolation I had was the perverse feeling that the worse the experience gets, the better the story gets.

2pm goes by.

3pm goes by.

My prostitute friend starts crying so I rub her back and say "Shhh, there, there, it's going to be ok. Shhh, I know, I know, tell me all about it, there, there."

4pm goes by.

5pm goes by.

6pm comes and goes.

I cry a little when they take everyone out of the cell who was going to be released except me. I contemplate strangling myself with my strapless bra if they make me stay here one more night.

6:30- 8:00pm: Lockdown time. The guards take their slow ass time changing shift. I attempt to sit in a yoga pose on the floor and deep breathe, but it's hard to sit in lotus pose when you are still wearing platform wedge shoes from the night before and are worried about your makeshift pad leaking on your prison jumpsuit (Now that's a sentence!). Going barefoot was absolutely out of the question.

8pm comes and goes.

9pm comes and goes.

Finally at 9:30PM the great State of Louisiana decides to release me from prison. My name tinkles like a pretty bell on the releasing officers lips when he calls it out. Hurriedly I remove my orange jumpsuit. Some of my cellmates witness for the first time what I have been wearing underneath. The mean ones who had yelled at me earlier for crying get all up in a fuss again.

"Oooh oooh oooh look at this, she ain' in here fo no public drunkaness, she be prostitutin.' "

They laugh in my face, but I don't care because one of us is getting out, and that would be me and my romper wearing ass. I wanted to keep the pantsuit, for several reasons, but they would not let me. Here's why I wanted it:

1. It was actually was a great shade of orange.

2. It had INMATE written down the side in black bold letters, which I thought would make them fantastic pajamas and/or an excellent addition to my costume collection.

3. Wouldn't you want to keep your prison jumpsuit?

4. I am embarassed about the blood on my romper crotch.

My prostitute friend checks me out and assures, "Honey, it ain that bad." Degradation complete, I am processed through the remainder of the prison system. I get a little baggie with all my jewelery inside. Thirty minutes later I find myself sitting outside the prison, having borrowed quarters from a crack dealer in the street to call Beth and Suzanne to pick me up. I wait on a bench outside the prison, the scene illuminated by a lone streetlamp like a perverse Norman Rockwell painting.

A woman approaches me asking if I can bum her a cigarette. I can't, but she tells me she is here to pick up her husband, arrested the night before for throwing a string of beads off a Bourbon Street balcony to her below, and accidentally hitting an off duty cop who then had him arrested for assaulting a police officer.

What the hell is going on New Orleans? Seriously, New Orleans Police Department, what is your problem? Are you honestly the worst people on Earth? First you abandon the city during Katrina, and NOW THIS SHIT? Has New Orleans lost its edge? Did all the normal criminals get drowned in the flood and now they have to start arresting tourists? This cannot be a sustainable business plan.

Two obviously intoxicated men arrive in a taxi. They rush in the building, then rush back out. They look left and right in the street.

"Were either one of you just released?"

I raise my hand, "Me."

They chuckle, looking my Walk-of-Shame outfit up and down.

"Did you get released with a black girl, dreads?"

Maux, to self: (Hmm, which one?)

"Recovering from a stroke, good at crip walking?" I ask.

"That's her."

"Yeah she's out," I say with some bitterness, pointing "She went that way."

Don't tell me you don't know what crip walking is. here's a visual:

I manage to reserve telling these frat boys, 'Oh yeah, I've seen her. Seen her on crack.' Sub-question: what are these frat boys doing with the crack head crip walker? They bum the wife a smoke and listen to our wrongful imprisonment complaints.

The red-headed one: "Oh come on, I've been to jail lots of times, it's no big deal. You know why they kept you so long, right? Obama gives New Orleans so much money, they get money each time they say they fed a prisoner a meal. That's why they kept you for almost 24 hours, 4 meals."

Maux, incredulous: "Are you saying this is Barack Obama's fault?"

"I'm saying you've got to forgive New Orleans! Come back! You've got to come back!" They shout from the window of the cab as they peal off in the direction of their crip walking friend.

At the opposite end of the block, our rented minivan screeches around the corner.

Their plea must have worked, right? I mean, I live here now, don't I?

PART TWO, THE AFTERMATH:

At the opposite end of the block, our rented minivan screeches around the corner, filled with Suzanne, Beth, and the new arrivals to our entourage: Suzanne's brother Steve and his girlfriend, Audrey. Nice to meet you! Sorry I'm covered in blood and just got out of prison! Luckily, Amelie, Suze and George's 5 year old daughter, was still with her grandparents and cousins so she didn't have to witness this late-night prison pick up. There is a group hug and some pitiful crying.

Beth: "Has your spirit been broken?"

Maux: "No. No, it has not."

We go home, recapping and reconciling recent events from the inside jail/ outside jail perspectives. I take a shower and eat an entire Domino's pizza. I had not had anything to eat or drink in over 24 hours. There were dozens of missed calls and texts messages from Will, worrisome back in California.

Will: "Babe, where have you been?"

Maux: "Babe, I was in prison."

I expected to see George at home, because he was led away by the releasing officer hours before they let me out. Somehow, he is still in there. He comes home a few hours later, and arrives at the door looking sheepish and ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous! Normally quite the dapper dresser, he is wearing the following: his own white Bucks and argyle socks paired with a small pair of neon green basketball shorts and a small striped polo shirt. Adding insult to injury, it appears that the prison guards stole his clothes.

We woke up on Saturday and remembered, 'Oh yeah, didn't we come here for Jazz Fest?' We salvaged the weekend and had a great time. I forgave the city of New Orleans for stealing a day of my life. Did you hear that, Big Easy? I forgive you, you Sultry Beast.

Although I vowed to myself in prison that I would never drink alcohol again, at least for a whole year, I found myself being pressured into, what else, another frozen drive-thru daiquiri stand on Saturday morning as we waited to board the St. Charles streetcar.

When we got on the trolley I poured a little bit of my daiquiri out the window on to the grass, in memory of my fallen homies still locked up.

I got to stay an extra day, since I had to change my flight for a court date on Monday afternoon. I couldn't miss my court date, or they would issue a warrant out for my arrest. Which would have been exciting, but ultimately irresponsible. At the court, however, there appeared to be one small problem. It turns out that Public Drunkeness is NOT EVEN A MISDEMEANOR OFFENSE in the state of Louisiana. The city attorney called me into a small room next to the judge's bench and explained that they were going to rescind the charges if I paid a $200 bond fee, and $225 in 6 months to have the records expunged. The lawyer caught a glimpse of my bruised wrist and raised his eyebrows.

"The handcuffs did this," I said with indignation.

"Make that a $100 bond," he said.

Deal.

Note to ignorant future self: An arrest for an alcohol related offense doesn't exactly look good on an application for a new nursing job.

"Am I pleading guilty or non guilty?" I asked.

"Neither. This didn't happen."

Oh, really?

I paid the money and got the heck up outta there.

I got a cab from the courthouse to the airport, and the cab driver, coincidentally both a social worker and law student, asks me if I myself am an attorney. I can see how he would think that, me being a well dressed smart looking young woman standing with luggage in front of the courthouse.

Maux: "No sir, I was a defendant."

Cabdriver: "What for?"

Maux: "Public drunkenness, Bourbon St."

Cabdriver, laughing: "That's like getting arrested for prayin in church!"

He doesn't believe me until I show him my paperwork.

Cabdriver: "But public drunkeness isn't a misdemeanor in New Orleans."

Oh really, so I've heard.

I run into an ER doctor I know in the airport, and he asks why he didn't see me at the riverboat show Friday night.

Me: "Well, I was in prison"

Him: "But public drunkeness isn't even a misdemeanor in New Orleans."

Hmm, you don't say.

I am woken from my much needed nap on the plane by a stewardess frantically calling on the overhead for any doctor or nurse on board to immediately come to the back of the plane. The same ER doctor and I assist an elderly woman having trouble breathing. In exchange for my medical skills I was given a coupon for $100 off my next United Airlines flight. Karma alert: that's exactly the same amount I had to pay for my Get Out Of Jail Free card.

Will and I live in New Orleans now and we were an OPP prisoner and a policeman for Halloween.

The picture is blurry because there wasn't a sober person around for 10 miles to take a clear picture. Check out the fierce handcuff necklace. Happy Halloween

That Time I Pooped In My Pants

Any week you lose your job is a bad week, but one way to know you are having an especially difficult week is to also poop in your pants. I didn't lose my job because I lost control of my bowels, if that's what you're thinking.

It happened this past February (2009), at the downtown Seattle Public Library. Just days after a contractual snafu resulted in my travel nurse job ending 4 months ahead of schedule, and with, uh, no freaking warning, I found myself unemployed. I was using the free public library space to apply for new jobs online, like a responsible citizen should. I was past the initial whirl of sudden unemployment, where I found myself waking up at noon and stepping out on the houseboat dock in my pajamas to kayak all day. Okay, actually that phase lasted a month.

Here I am, contemplating career moves.

Now I was ready for to-do lists and resume sending. I was just minding my own motivated business at the library. As a responsible citizen, I had been up early, getting coffee, reading the paper, and chauffering my employed friend Rachel to work. During this time I had had a healthy bowel movement. If that was too much information for you, please stop reading now. It's going to get a lot worse.

When I was done job searching for the day, I stood up and packed my belongings to leave so I could get to my car before the meter expired (again, the responsibile citizenship!). 'Hmm,' I thought, 'it seems like I need to go to the bathroom again. Bonus poop!' This was nothing urgent, just a healthy message my body was sending me.

Scene of the crime.

The Seattle Public Library is very modern. Rachel desribes it as being "like Amsterdam on drugs," but she has only been there once. Both the library and Amsterdam. I thought, 'Take the stairs, don't wait for the elevator,' but nothing too alarming. Nothing like when you really have to poop in the grocery store or someplace, and you have to bend over and take a knee so that your heel presses against your butt. You pretend you are looking at items on the lowest shelf and deep breathe. Pep talk to yourself 'We can make it, dont do this to me here' as you flare your nostrils in a deep exhalation. I don't know the exact physiologic reason this maneuver is so effective, and as a nurse I probably should, but it calms everything down (something about the valsalva maneuver, or the vagus nerve, perhaps). I was not at that point yet, so what happened next was completely surprising!

I walked across the library and into the stairwell to go down to the basement, where the restrooms are located. Half a flight down I realized this particular stairwell did not go into the basement. The design of this library, like so many of it's users, is on crack. So I went back up. Again, nothing alarming or urgent yet. Just a little bit more hurry because of the delay. Note to self: it is wise to avoid stair climbing activity when in a quest for a bathroom.

I'm walking, I'm walking.

Okay I'm walking a little quickly now.

I'm retracing my steps through the stacks to the elevator...

When.It.Happens.

I thought, and only now does the cliche ring true, I thought I was going to just release a little toot.

Just a little toot.

And then I thought, with alarm,

That toot is hot.

And then I thought,

Oh my god--- that feels hot-- and wet? Oh no ugh oh my oh did i...?

My mind was struggling to keep up with the rapid sensations indicating that my body was under attack from itself. I put my hand on my bottom, and, sure enough, the seat of my jeans was hot and wet. I was horrified. Maybe, maybe that's blood! For a second I clung to the idea that I must be having a vaginal hemorrhage of a pregnancy I was unaware of. But, sadly, this was not the case. What I thought was just going to be a little toot on my way to the bathroom to take a normal poop instead turned into a liquid poison diarrhea experience in my jeans.

It's sudden, shocking, and alarming, but your first thoughts have to be of survival.

Is there going to be more?

Get to a bathroom.

And get naked.

Quickly now.

The true miracle is that I was carrying my long puffy North Face coat, which also happened to be brown. Ha!

If I had not had that coat with me, Rachel, who works several blocks away at an upscale clothing store, would have received a frantic phone call requesting immediate delivery of a pair of designer pants from her designer store to the last stall on the left in the library basement bathroom, as soon as possible. There is no telling what she would have made me do, tell, sing, or promise in exchange. I can see her, dangling the pants over the stall door, and then pulling them back when I frantically reach for them. I would be at her complete disposal. She probably would have made me give her several dozen compliments and hand her sheets of toilet paper to dab her eyes because she was ruining her mascara cry-laughing so hard. I would expect, and deserve, nothing less.

Thankfully, I had the long puffy coat. I put it on.

Then I proceeded cautiously to the elevator bay, where I had to wait with a group of about 7 people who were grumbling about how slow the elevators were. The illuminated circular button mocked us, and we each took our turn to stab it. As we waited, clumped impatietly,

it quickly became obvious that something was wrong with one of us. To be specific: it smelled like one of us had shit their pants. I was doing my best to look nonchalant, nonplussed and most importantly: non responsible. The look I tried to put on my face was one of peace and serenity. Me? I'm so calm and lost in my own library thoughts I don't even smell the diarrhea, let alone have it in my pants at this very moment.

Then the elevator arrived and we crowded in. At the last second a late comer hustled towards us, and a kindly someone stuck their arm between the closing doors. They reopened. We all squeezed a litte tighter to accomodate this young mother and her stroller. Our slow and stuffy descent to the basement began. I'm kidding myself to think my fellow passengers didn't instantly peg me as the guilty party, as I was avoiding eye contact with the focus of a ninja and the only one of us not sniffing the air distastefully.

The toddler in the stroller was nestled immediately next to me, and not once did he avert his gaze from my face. He appeared to be smirking. His mother giggled awkwardly and tried to call the babies name to get its attention. The child, seated at a low stroller height near my crotch, was possibly containing a load in his pants as well. I removed all doubt to my guilt when I shot out of the elevator the instant the door opened, headed in the direction of the bathrooms.

I don't know how many of you have been to the basement reading room of the Seattle Public Library downtown, but some smart-aleck designed a floor with all these wooden raised letters on the floorboards, very bohemian literary decorative library chic.

Oh Maux God. It's amazing. You really can find anything on the internet. Here is the floor.

It's ironic because when you walk across it, in a library where you are supposed to be quiet, it makes a freaking racket. Especially if you are wearing cowboy boots and on a beeline for the bathroom, waddling awkwardly with a hot mess in your pants. The sound was like BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! clipping across the floor. The noise my boots made on that floor careening through the quiet reading room cannot be over emphasized. I was making a scene.

When I scooted past, people looked up, and they saw me, wearing cowboy boots, jeans, and a long brown coat frantically cross the room at a fast pace. I hoped to myself that they were thinking I was hustling over to the foreign language newspaper section and not just distastefully displaying my human nature in a frantic quest for digestive shelter.

Body systems: fail!

Five minutes later, this is what those same people saw: me again, clipping BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG furiously past them towards the exit, only this time I was wearing cowboy boots and my jacket. NO PANTS. I know one of them had to have thought,

"Wait a minute, didn't that girl just walk past, but wearing pants?"

Or

"What happened to that girls pants?"

I was completely naked from the waist down underneath my coat. The thought that there were probably other people (crazy, homeless) spending their day in the library, naked under their coats as well, was of no consolation to me. I had to get out of there, and fast. I always try to breeze over what happened during those 5 minutes in the bathroom, just to be polite (as if there's anything polite or ladylike about telling people you shit in your pants, and on a blog to boot). Everytime I try to tell this story without the following details, the listeners will not stand for it. They must know exactly how I solved this problem. I know I'd demand to know the same: my undies were in the trash, my jeans were rolled up in a careful ball in my purse.

Okay, actually, I'm lying. I put the undies in the pocket of the jeans and then rolled the jeans up into a self contained ball. They were a pair of Hankie Pankies, alright! They cost 18 dollars! I was going to try and wash them! I am a gross person!

I exited the library and felt a strange draft. 'I'm naked,' I thought to myself with each person I passed, 'and they don't even know it.' Being naked in public is old hat for me, but the subversiveness of being naked under a long coat, combined with the residual adrenaline from the initial pants-shatting experience, had me positively on edge. Plus, when I'm naked in public I'm not usually sober. I'm usually skinny dipping at night or spending my days sunburning my nipples at Burning Man.

As soon as I got in the car I called Tori. Tori and I share a special devotion to hilarious stories of people shitting their pants (people like her sister and her boyfriend, for example). I honestly thought I would never in my life have the chance to gain access to this exclusive club I so often mocked.

Maux: "Tori, I am driving through downtown Seattle right now, naked from the waist down, wearing nothing but my cowboys boots, my puffer jacket, and a t-shirt."

Tori: "What happened, did you shit your pants?"

Tori really knows me. And still loves me. We both struggled to breath through laughter as I relayed all of the details to her while driving quickly home. I blamed the suspect bite of turkey bacon I had eaten that morning in my breakfast sandwich. It tasted raw, and I had tried unsuccessfully to spit most of it out of the car window as I was driving. I repeatedly exclaimed, "Can you believe this shit happened to me?" only to dissolve in hysterics again because I inadvertently used the word shit.

I know responsible citizens don't talk on the cell phone while driving, but I could not keep this to myself. This is just an element of my character: I must tell someone, or many someones, and I must tell them immediately. Oh look, good thing I've discovered blogging.

Update/ Part Two:

I got home to my happy little Seattle houseboat, put my clothes in the laundry (twice), took a shower (twice), and called my mom. My mom had to pull her car over because she was laughing so hard she thought it was unsafe to continue operating her vehicle. With my teenage brother at home, she maintains close contact with current slang. "Oh my god, you sharted!" she said through laughter.

I waited to tell this story to Rachel until I was with her later that night, drinking wine and watching TiVo on her couch. I wanted to act it out for her. But another friend of hers was there when I arrived, and I couldn't quite gauge if her and I were ready to cross the Poop Friendship Barrier. The line between Too Much Information and Just Right has always been a little blurry for me (obviously).

Rachel was laying out several platters of various appetizers, including the food equivalent of shabby chic furniture : taquitos. That is just the kind of hostess she is. You cannot top her. You cannot even try. I could contibute nothing to the fast moving conversation of he-said, she-said regarding some drama the weekend before, so consumed was I with not only the taquitos, but when it was going to be my turn to talk and tell my funny story. This is a problem that I have.

Finally, much like earlier in the day, I could hold it in no longer.

I took out my phone and texted Rachel. "I pooped in my pants today at the library."

"Who are you texting, that weirdo from match . com?" Rachel asked as her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She read the text, her eyes widened, and she leaned back in her chair and howled with delight. Then Rachel, her husband, and their friend all told stories about pooping in their own pants (and I'm sure some readers are going, yup, that happened to me). EXCUSE ME, EDITORS NOTE: I DON'T MEAN RACHEL. SHE HAS NEVER POOPED IN HER PANTS. I AM MISTAKEN. Our concensus: you can't hold in liquid poison like that, you can't even try. You have to tell yourself, 'my body was sick, it was poison, it had to come out.' There's no use beating yourself up over it. It's best to start laughing as soon as possible. Humorous self-deprecation is always the best policy. Because here's the thing, SHIT HAPPENS. And it's nice, often hysterical, to hear about it happening to other people.

For days afterward I could not toot in public because I was scared it would happen again, but enough time has passed that now I can.