Just when I thought the ghetto of Beverly Hills couldn’t get any sleepier, a drug lord popped into the limelight.

And wouldn’t you just know it’d be my father.

Yes, watch your step, for I am the daughter of one of the most renowned drug dealers in Southern California. At least, that was the stance of the Los Angeles Police Department.

One night several years ago, I found myself staring at the clock at 1:15 a.m. Because I had an actual “”bedtime”” of 10 p.m. until the day I left for college (my father is a very strict druggie — go figure), I was supposed to be asleep.

However, it’s kind of hard to sleep when the sound of the doorbell, accompanied by very loud male voices in the living room, wake you up.

Now, normally, I would do what any well-trained teen-ager would do: lie in bed and seethe, and then dish out a nice plate of sass in the morning. I could hear the smart-ass remarks already … “”Well I would go to school, Dad, but someone was making so much noise last night that I couldn’t sleep, and I really feel that I need a nice relaxing day in bed now.”” Ahh, it would be sweet.

But that night, for some reason, I couldn’t wait until morning. My father needed a good excuse for making that much noise, and even if he had one, I was going to ignore it and yell anyway. Get off the tracks, pops, ’cause the Bitch Express is coming through.

Well, needless to say, it kind of threw off my rhythm when I sashayed into the hallway and saw two cops standing there.

At that point, I figured it was not the time to be a typical teen-ager. I mean, I wasn’t sure if extreme peskiness was a misdemeanor. You will all be happy to know that it’s not.

Anyway, the cops hadn’t seen me yet. They were still interrogating my father, saying typical cop stuff such as, “”Sir, this would go a lot smoother if you would just be straight with us,”” and, “”We saw the suspect at your door, so stop acting like you don’t know what we’re talking about.””

Well, my jaw must have made a pretty loud thud when it hit the floor, because all three men turned and saw me.

So now these men of the law were staring at me in my pajamas, which consisted of sweat pants and a tent-sized T-shirt that probably could have single-handedly saved the entire Midwest from flooding.

Cop (turning to my father very critically): “”Sir, is that your wife?””

Dad (horrified that anyone would think he was married to a 16-year-old): “”No! That is my daughter.””

Now these cops were in trouble. You can accuse my dad of being a drug lord, but nobody calls Arnold Sklar a pedophile.

So my father and the cops were engaged in a glaring contest, which, in my expert opinion, is no way to stay out of jail. Luckily for him, my father turned to look at me.

Dad (not in the mood for the Bitch Express): “”Carrie, go to bed. Now.””

You don’t have to tell me twice to obey my father. I was going to go to bed. Well, I was going to go around the corner and eavesdrop; close enough.

By now — what with the statutory rape accusations and all — there had been enough commotion to wake my mother. She came downstairs, none too pleased to be awake, and even less pleased to discover policemen in her living room.

Mom (full of feminine composure): “”What the hell is going on here?””

Dad (relieved to see someone he is actually married to): “”These men think they tracked a well-known drug dealer to our door, where he apparently ‘made a deal’ with someone in this house.””

Well, that cleared that up.

This is the time when all housewives shine. It was one of those rare moments when the house, their domain of power and authority, is in complete disarray, and the wife must step up and take charge before the world as she knows it comes crashing down.

Luckily, my mother was up to the challenge.

Mom (up to the challenge): “”I’m going to the bathroom.””

Whew! We’re saved. That should solve everything. Thanks, Mom.

Of course, the cops wouldn’t have that particular plan.

Cop (getting up to block my mother’s path): “”Ma’am, I can’t let you do that.””

Great, now he was in trouble. It’s one thing to tell my dad he’s a drug lord with a taste for the young ones, but it is quite another to keep my mother out of the bathroom. No one, not even Fidel Castro in his finest hour, can keep a Sklar woman from peeing. This officer is toast. He is vapor. So long, sucker.

Mom (trying to decide how best to kill him): “”Why not?””

Other cop (sensing danger — smart man): “”It’s policy, ma’am. In cases such as these, it’s common for suspects to … er … flush evidence.””

Well my mom wasn’t going to take that. Not from Castro, and certainly not from this cop.

Mom (not taking it): “”And just what makes you think we have drugs here?””

Cop (physically taken aback by her sass — go Mom!): “”We were staked out on the corner and saw the drug dealer pull into a driveway with a white sport utility vehicle. He went up to the door, and — “”

Mom (cool beyond words): “”You mean the white SUV parked next door?””

Cop:

Yeah, he was pretty much silent at that point. I mean, when my mom makes you her bitch, you don’t do much talking.

You can guess what happened next. The cops got on the radio, called the station to inform them that they were retarded, and went next door to interrogate our neighbors, who definitely like to party from time to time.

So basically, my dad isn’t a drug dealer in the most technical of terms. But he bought property next to one, and that’s good enough for me.