A tapestry of unfortunate circumstances caused me to place my two year old daughter with strangers, lease out our elegant Malibu home, and unknowingly move in with a cocaine dealer. I had used marijuana before, but I'd not been exposed to this hippie lifestyle where a drug was available to alter every bad mood. My old stringent concepts of morality quickly crumbled as I became "enlightened" by peyote and cocaine.

I ended up assisting the drug dealer in his dangerous transactions. Constantly stoned, I was unable to run my only remaining copy business in Beverly Hills, so I leased it to two men who had just been released from prison. I broke up with the cocaine dealer after some drug dealers in a neighboring house were murdered. I then rented an apartment in Malibu.

I received a large check from an insurance company and tucked it in a drawer because it seemed wrong to get paid for my husband's death. Then I fell in love with a wealthy young businessman and he convinced me to deposit the check in the bank.

Now getting kicks out of shocking "normal" people, I made an adventure out of my trip to the most luxurious bank in Beverly Hills. Barefoot, clad in a pair of filthy, patched blue jeans and a skimpy crop top, with a dilapidated leather hat trimmed with beads and tattered feathers, I paraded through the bank's lobby. Thoroughly enjoying the stir my appearance caused, I presented the cashier's check at the new accounts desk. The frowning employee reluctantly took it, but after seeing the amount, she insisted on introducing me to the president, following his policy of meeting all new customers who made large deposits.