When narcotics, kitchen cutlery, a feline likely under demonic influence, and a vehicular mishap involving a pickup truck do not, individually or collectively, constitute circumstantial evidence.

Orginal Post: 10.26.2021. Revised 07.19.2025.

It was late May, and my annual spring-cleaning ritual had been postponed while I waited for new flooring to be installed. It made no sense to wash windows or have the drapes cleaned while I was living on a concrete slab that had been stripped of carpeting, so I turned my attention to the cabinet in the downstairs bathroom.

In the bottom drawer—one I rarely open—was an assortment of seldom-used products: a bottle of OPI® nail polish so old it had separated, some nail polish remover, a bag of hair scrunchies from the 1980s, and a small stash of expired medications dating back at least a decade.

It was easy enough to toss the first few items, but I didn’t want to flush the meds or throw them in the trash. Instead, I emptied the pills into a zip-top bag and made a note to drop them off at my local police station—the same one where I’d recycled my parents’ expired meds years earlier.

When I mentioned my plan to a friend, she suggested I try a nearby pharmacy instead. Since the CVS was closer than the station, I stopped there first.

“Oh, no,” the pharmacy tech told me. “We don’t take expired meds.”

Like Goldilocks, I moved on to the next drugstore.

“No, we don’t accept those either. Try the police department.”

“Why didn’t I just go there to begin with?” I muttered as I pulled into the station lot.

I reached for the bag of pills, but—as is often the case with knockoff brands—this zip-top bag didn’t have the required level of “zip.” When I picked it up, it yawned open and spilled its contents across my car like Skittles® falling from a rainbow. They landed in both cup holders, on the seats, between the seats, under the seats—one even made it directly beneath the gas pedal.

I scrambled to recover them. I could’ve sworn there weren’t more than twenty pills in that bag, but suddenly it seemed like dozens—little pink, yellow, and white nuggets wedged so tightly into crevices I had to dig for them like I was panning for gold.

After gathering them all (I think), I sealed the bag with the same intensity TSA agents use to pack high-risk cargo. Then I carried it like a live grenade to the station’s front door, where a sign greeted me:“We no longer accept outdated medications.”

I took the bag home and shoved it back in the drawer. They’d lived there for over ten years—they could live there ten more.

At about the same time, I registered for a cooking class – specifically, a class entitled, “Knife Skills,” which, as its name implies, is designed to teach students how to use their kitchen knives so they can learn how to properly chop vegetables. The class required you to bring your own knives – not one knife, not two knives but three: a paring knife, a chef’s knife and, what I call, the “choppy” knife.

Now, you can’t just walk into the Culinary Institute with random pieces of cutlery like you’re one of those circus people who throws sharp instruments at someone who’s attached to a spinning dart board. No. You have to put them in a carrying case, which makes perfect sense. I mean, if you’re struggling to learn how to cut a carrot, you probably shouldn’t be walking around a test kitchen toting a 12-inch knife with a bunch of other people who are playing fast and loose with their lethal weapons, either.

I went online and purchased a case, which, for all intent and purposes, looks a lot like a carrying case for a long-range assault weapon. I kept it in the back of my SUV so that I would not forget to take it with me from one class to the next. To be extra safe, I wrapped the case in one of those all-weather blankets you use to sit on the grass when you go to an outdoor concert. I tucked it right next to my binder that included my handwritten notes – notes like: “Don’t be afraid to use the blade,” and “Cut deep and sharpen often.”

On June 1, 2021—the day the flooring install was supposed to begin, but didn’t… the day I picked up my cat from the boarding facility because there was no point in keeping her there… the day she protested by thrashing around her carrier like a Puccini diva in her final aria… the same day I was rushing to the nursing home where my mother was experiencing  a series of mini-strokes… I got into a car accident.

Gratefully, no one was hurt. But my car—tail light to headlight—was bent, dented, and very much spent. The driver’s side door would need to be replaced. I called the police. Two officers arrived to file a report.

As they spoke with the other driver, I opened the back door of my car to grab my purse. That’s when I saw them: Two oblong, snow-white pills staring up at me from under the driver’s seat. I stared back. What were they? Pain meds from my lung surgery? Antibiotics from my bout with pneumonia? Shingles medication? Who knew? Slowly, silently, I shut the door and stepped away. One of the officers began circling the vehicle. Once. Then again. “Any damage here to the back?” he asked, stopping at the rear liftgate.

The back? The back where three knives were tucked inside a tactical-looking case wrapped in a blanket, accompanied by notes about cutting deep?

“No,” I replied, maybe a little too casually. “It was a side collision. Left side. Right here.” My heart was pounding—loud and fast, like the opening riff of Wipe Out. Suddenly, a 93-year-old mother mid-stroke, a shrieking cat, and a house torn apart by a flooring delay were the least of my concerns. Never—not once—did I imagine I’d find myself standing in front of a police officer with both drugs and weapons in my previously pristine Honda CR-V.

The fact that I left with only a citation (and a hefty increase in my insurance premium) was nothing short of divine intervention.

I could already hear myself explaining it to a judge: “You see, Your Honor… this all started because I had no floors.”

What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever found in your car — or tried to explain to someone with a straight face?

“Cell Block Tango” is a song from the 1975 musical Chicago, with music by John Kander and lyrics by Fred Ebb.