Last week, I came home and found a note on my windshield. I thought it was from one of the neighbors, asking me not to be a butthole about parking my car. Instead, it was a $42 parking ticket because my tabs had expired last month and I haven’t gotten around to paying it because I am lazy and I don’t need The Man telling me what to do. I’m going rogue! Nissan Rogue! After I improve my credit score for a low-interest rate! I grabbed the ticket and sulked inside where I grumbled as I renewed my tabs online and printed out my receipt.
The next morning I had my prenatal appointment, so I planned to pick up my tabs afterward. As I drove up to the parking garage, a cop pulled in behind me and turned on his lights. From what I have learned on Cops re-runs and any movie with a police officer in it, I kept my hands on the wheel until he tapped my glass. I rolled down the window and the officer leaned in and said, “Ma’am, just so you know, this is being audio-recorded. I pulled you over because you have expired tabs.”
“I know!” I shrieked. “But I just bought new tabs online and I’m going to go there after my appointment.” Like, yes, I am irresponsible when it comes to laws and yadda yadda but I am responsible when it comes to my unborn child’s health!
I handed him over my license, insurance and the tabs receipt and he walked back to his car where he spent an eternity scrolling through my priors, like the time I cheated on my high school chemistry exam by programming all the formulas into my TI-83 calculator. Don’t judge me! Like you didn’t do that! Because you studied!
My heart was racing because he was taking so long, letting everyone entering the medical building take a good look at the felon behind the wheel. Then another cop car pulled up next to him like he had to ask for backup. How dangerous do I look, officer?! I’m 31 weeks pregnant and almost 200 pounds. I CAN’T JUMP A FENCE, SIR. My vertical leap is about three inches and that’s only if you film me jumping off a step and then play the tape backwards.
When the officer finally returned, he held a pink slip of paper. He explained that he was letting me go with a warning, but that I would have to get it taken care right away. He left and I sighed, relieved that I didn’t have another $$$ ticket on top of the other ticket I had and so glad that I had printed out the receipt. It was a little disappointing however that I didn’t take advantage of his audio recording of our interaction by yelling, “Oh really?! This is being audio recorded, officer?! MAYBE YOU SHOULDN’T TOUCH YOURSELF THAT WAY THEN! IT’S INAPPROPRIATE! STOP UNDRESSING ME WITH YOUR EYES!”
I called Mike right away and told him about my brush with the law. He disapproved, saying, “I don’t know a long distance relationship will work when you go to jail.”
He was right. What will become of my marriage when I’m sent to Monroe State Correctional Facility because I’m such a lawbreaker? At home, Mike and I practiced what our conversations would be like with a glass pane and a staticy phone between us.
I noticed in this photo that my hands are huuuge. I guess that settles whether or not I’ll be someone’s bitch or someone will be mine. With these large man hands, Fred Flinstone feet, and a propensity to snore like a chainsaw running in an auditorium, you bet I’m going to have someone calling me Big Mama Mo. I bet you don’t have to prepare for this, friend. You’re an upstanding citizen, right?