Salty (With a dash of crazy)

The heavy steel door slammed shut, bouncing a loud echo against the cold cement walls and floor.

“Remove your clothing.” The deputy ordered in a stern and commanding voice, pointing to an open shower stall. I shimmied my way out of a pair of baggy gym shorts, an over-sized t-shirt, and a sports bra; I had no idea what had happened to my shoes nor did I care at this point. I piled my belongings in a heap on the bench in front of me, turned around to reveal my naked, mostly bronzed body (except for the white outline of my bikini area highlighting my naughty bits.)

I was too tired to be embarrassed or shy. I just wanted to get to a bed as quickly as possible, and if stripping down to my birthday suit was my ticket to finally having a safe place to lay down, I couldn’t pull my clothes off fast enough.

Nudity had never been that big of a deal to me. Besides my awkward days in middle school gym when I timidly covered my flat chest and wondered why everyone else had boobs but me, I had done a pretty good job maintaining my physique and was proud of the way I looked in my late thirties. And right now, it didn't feel much different than standing in front of a doctor, I just didn't have the scratchy paper gown to hide behind.

I stood up straight and let the officer scan me up and down, opening my mouth wide, swirling my tongue and tousling my hair around until she was satisfied that I had nothing hidden in the upper parts of my body. So far, my cavity search wasn't much worse than a check for cavities at the dentist. Besides the whole "being naked" part.

“Now turn around, bend down and spread your cheeks," she ordered.

Memories of my oldest brother and his famous “Brown Eye” he used to torture me with as a kid immediately popped into my head. While I was enthralled in some morning cartoon, he would run into the room, pull his pants down to his bare ass, spread his cheeks wide apart to reveal that pink fleshy “starfish,” and blast me with a punch of warm hot air to my face, shouting “Brown Eye” as he laughed and ran out of the room.

I wished for a moment that I had one of those famous “Wright Farts” I could seep out, to try and throw some humor into a situation that had already spun drastically out of control.

But there was nothing in the cannon. Damn!

The poor deputy didn’t deserve it anyway. She was just doing her job, and I am sure she had been hit with enough foul odors already that day. Lord knows the disgusting things those intake officers see daily. Besides, the way my day was going, they probably would have slapped additional charges on me. Something ridiculous like, “Assault with a smelly weapon.”

I snapped out of my sophomoric fantasy.

“Spread them wider and cough!” She ordered. I quickly obliged, grabbing and spreading as far as I could. I let out a few forced, hard coughs. How far up there could she actually see anyway? Did she need a flashlight to aid in her search?

Finally, she seemed satisfied and told me to stand up, handing me a neatly folded pile of county-issued clothes; a stiff and starchy pair of navy pants and matching shirt with white block letters on the back, a dingy sports bra, and white granny panties. I didn't want to think where that underwear had been. I definitely didn't want them that close to my own woo-ha. I wadded them up in a ball and pulled my pants on without them. To complete the ensemble was a pair of white tube socks and neon orange slip-on shower shoes.

I handed her my own pile clothes which she passed off through a small slit in the wall and finished getting dressed. I was so removed from the whole experience that it just felt like some bad dream I was watching from my actual bed at home.

From the moment they had hog-tied and carried me out of the restaurant, to the trip to the “hospital” after I had asked someone to call an ambulance, (which I later found out was the county’s mental hospital) to being cuffed to a wall and told I could use a phone that was just out of my reach. And who exactly was I supposed to call? My husband (or what I now call my “wasband” was in Mexico, my mom was on dialysis with a broken arm in Utah, and my closest relative was my 88-year-old Grandma, who was 800 miles away. And I couldn’t for the life of me remember anyone’s phone number.

I thought for sure someone was standing behind a camera waiting to pop out and tell me it had all been some elaborate joke. Or that I had stepped onto the set of “Orange Is the New Black” and was getting ready to meet up with Piper and the gang to start filming the newest season. Nothing phases you in dreams because a part of you knows when you wake up, everything goes back to normal.

Sleep was what I desperately needed, aside from someone on my side who could explain that it had all been just a huge misunderstanding and that I hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in over 3 days do to me fighting with my husband and not wanting to go back home. I don’t know if you have ever been without sleep for that long, but your mind and your body start to do some crazy things. Why do you think they have signs on the side of the road saying "Don’t drive drowsy”? Because it's just as bad, if not worse, than drunk driving. You start to feel like you are living in a dream, and there is nothing you can do to “wake up” from that dream except go to sleep. The longer you stay awake, the less “normal” things become.

The deputy handed me my “roll-up” consisting of a flimsy mattress, a white folded sheet, a thin, scratchy blanket, a yellow nightgown, an extra pair of socks and underwear, and a gray sweatshirt. I didn’t realize that getting “processed in” meant I was moving in, but it was apparent that I was going to be here more than just a night. I had permanently checked myself in, and it would now be up to a judge to determine when I would get to check-out. Welcome to the “real” Hotel California. You can “check-in” any time you like, but you can never leave.

I followed the officer down a long hallway in line with a few other inmates, awkwardly holding my “roll-up” trying not to drop any of my other belongings, while shuffling my shower flops to keep them on my feet. We exited through a door outside and were passed off to another waiting deputy who guided us along a paved and carefully manicured path.

The summer night was crisp but warm, and after spending the day riding in the back of a few cramped police cars, sitting in frigid cement holding cells, and taking in the sights and sounds at the jail’s mental hospital, I sucked in as much of that fresh, quiet air as I could. I had no idea what time it was, but I knew it had been almost two days now since I had eaten or had anything to drink, and judging by the dimmed housing units we walked by, it was already “lights out.”

Finally, we reached what would be my housing unit, and I was met by an officer at the door who led me to an open-cell. My “bunkie” or cellmate, a woman not much older than myself and half my size, greeted us at the click of the door in her yellow nightgown. Her long French braids which hung down each side and her over-sized gown reminded me of the sleepovers I used to have as a kid at Grandmas when I forgot to pack my pajamas.

The door slammed shut behind us, and I set my roll-up down on the open bed.

“First time?" she asked in a scratchy, annoyed voice as if I had woken her up from a beauty rest. Her premature wrinkled face had a weathered appearance, and you could tell she had been a smoker, probably of multiple illegal things, on the outside. I don't know what gave me away, other than maybe the tear-stained “deer in the headlights” expression on my face.

“Yeah," I said courtly. I wasn’t ready to make small talk or swap stories of what brought me there. I was sure there would be plenty of time for that later. I started to unroll my gear and sort through my assigned belongings.

“Well, this is your shelf.” She said, pointing to an empty area in a built-in bookcase. "You can put your extra clothes and stuff here, and I’ll show you how to make your bed now in case we have an inspection tomorrow.”

I didn't know if this was her way or the proper jail way, but it's not like I was given an instruction manual or "welcome to jail" booklet, so I appreciated the help. The room was clean and fairly organized, something I was presently surprised by. It was obvious this wasn’t her first rodeo.

I quietly observed as she took the mattress and folded one end of it over slightly to form a built-in pillow, and then folded the sheet around it, tying the ends together tightly to secure it all in place. She repeated the same process at the bottom of the mattress with the other two sheet corners and pushed the ready-made bed into the grooves of the plastic bed-frame.

“Breakfast is at 5 am so they can feed the court bodies. If you want it, you have to go out and stand in line to get it.” I didn’t quite like how we were just referred to as "bodies," but it was one of the many things I would soon become accustomed to, including the random drug raids, strip searches, minimal time outside, lack of privacy, and food so bad I wouldn’t even feed it to my dog.

"Okay," I said, laying down on my freshly covered mattress and pulling the scratchy wool blanket over me. I didn't bother changing into my yellow Mu-mu nightgown, nor did I really care what was on the breakfast menu, which she had already begun to ramble off.

"Thank you," I said, in a half yawn. It felt good to be in a bed with a blanket, in a quiet, dark room with nothing to do but sleep. And my first night in jail ever in my life, was the best sleep I had in a while.

I wasn’t so much in shock about where I was or even that I had been arrested. Being a traveler and having had many adventures around the world, I have learned to view everything that happens in life as an “experience.” You get to decide if you want to look at it as a “good” experience, or something you would rather not repeat. I had asked the universe for a retreat, (in fact I was in the process of planning one in Mexico) and BOY did it deliver! I should have probably been a little more specific about the location, the amenities, and other people attending. This was about to be the longest no-frills “retreat” I had ever been on in my life.

What was upsetting was all of the things I had on the line that I suddenly had no control over. The business meeting for a book sponsorship that I couldn't even call to reschedule. My beautiful beachfront home in Mexico I didn’t know if I would be able to ever go back to along my husband and dog who couldn’t even come into the country. All of the hard work I had put in over the last few months was now suddenly flushing down the toilet. That’s what I was upset about. And there was nothing I could do but pay a $30,000 bail that I didn’t have, or wait in jail until I could see a judge. All for acting a little goofy and chucking a salt shaker that accidentally hit a dude in the face.

Reading over the police reports and hearing witness accounts from that day really didn’t paint me in the best light, nor did it paint an accurate portrayal of who I am, which I suppose was the hardest part of all this to accept. I DID go a little crazy in a Denny’s, and I did have what you might call a “mental health crisis,” and it took a long time for me to be comfortable to say that.

Imagine yourself sleep deprived for 3 days, trying to escape from an emotionally, verbally, and sometimes physically abusive marriage. And now you were about to be late for one of the most critical meetings of your career so far. Not to mention, you are not entirely operating on all four cylinders, (maybe one or two at the most.) Because of the sleep deprivation, you actually have a bit of psychosis going on, and it doesn't help that you just took a hefty dose of "medical chocolate" to calm your nerves (which only further stimulates your overly active and creative mind.) How would YOU react?

For anyone who has ever been under these circumstances and NOT lost their shit, I applaud you, sir or madam. Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from you about life balance, and being able to handle my emotions better in stressful situations.

Of course, you already know what I did. I chucked a damn salt shaker across the room. From the floor at Denny's restaurant. I was on the floor because I had extremely low blood sugar, and slid off the bench onto the floor. And my crazy behavior? Trying to promote my book. I was actually going around the restaurant trying to rally up people to do a video with me to get on the Ellen show. (I know, soooo crazy, huh?)

Being pretty versed in health and nutrition, I figured my body probably needed a little sodium, and a splash cold water on the face always seems to help wake you up, not to mention I was getting severely dehydrated. When the entire restaurant looked at me like I was an alien from Mars, I felt a little judged and completely ignored.

"Can I please have a glass of water?" I shouted to the waitress from the floor.

No response. The ladies at the table next to me had a half drunk glass of water on the table and gave it to me as they were getting ready to close out their bill. I dumped the glass over my head.

"Can I PLEASE have a glass of water?" Another waiter heard me.

"Those ladies just gave you one and you dumped it on the floor. No we won't bring you one if you are just going to waste it?" Waste it? I asked myself. I just SAVED myself.

I threw the empty glass towards the kitchen where it shattered in a million pieces but didn't harm anyone but the cheap dirty tiled floor. My next move was to get some sodium. I reached for the saltshaker on the table above me and to add to my frustration further, it was completely crusted over and I couldn't even open the lid.

Not having a clue or even thinking about where it would land, it hit a dude at a nearby table in the head, almost identical to the famous “Diner” scene in the movie Dumb and Dumber.

But unlike Harry, who got off with the guy coming over to his table and spitting a gigantic logy in his burger to retaliate, I had the cops called on me, was arrested, and charged with felony assault. I remembered at one point seeing this cartoon drawing of a saltshaker holding a knife in its hand, with a pepper shaker laying in a pool of blood beside him. A lousy pun seriously just became my life.

My “Dumb and Dumber” moment is one that I can laugh at now, and that’s the initial reaction I get from most people when I tell them what I was arrested for. The other response is just pure shock or disbelief that a slapstick moment straight out of the movies landed me in a high-powered woman's detention facility shackled up like a violent criminal for the next 7 weeks. Although I am free now, I was fighting charges that could have potentially affect and ruin the REST of my life.

If I could have just talked to the guy and explained that it was a total accident and that I am not a mental case, or on drugs, or out to beat up the rest of the world with condiment holders, but just a normal girl who was having an exceptionally stressful couple of days, and had a little bit of a temper tantrum in public because I couldn’t get any salt out of that dirty crusted over saltshaker. Maybe if he knew all that, it wouldn’t have become what it was.

But I guess one way of dealing with any situation is to try and find the humor in it because as they say, if you don't laugh, you cry. The more I talk about it and share my story instead of shamefully hiding behind it, the more lessons I can pull from it. How we bounce back from mistakes sometimes is even more important than the lesson itself. If I can help anyone because of what I went through, then that’s just the extra “salt” on the corn cob.