Forgive me for the sporadic nature of my posts lately.  I’m in the latter stages of editing my latest children’s book - and folks are cracking the whip.  My previously open nights are now bogged down with contemplation on the proper usage of ellipses versus commas, and appropriate verbiage for 5th grade readers. (For example, we eliminated the phrase, “led down into the bowels of the dark building” - because, c’mon, ‘bowels’…there is nothing more interesting to 10-year-old boys than shits and farts…come to think of it, there’s nothing more interesting to 40-year-old men…but that’s fodder for a future post).

Last Thursday, I actually got away and met the gals (Mom, Sis, Kara & Alice) at the Farrell’s home on the northside of town…thanks again for the yummy Sloppy Joes, Alice!  Henry (nephew) and Ryan (Kara’s little one) were there as well, so they reveled in the adoration of a gaggle of women.  Life is rough for these boys.  And by rough I mean ridiculously charmed.

Anyway, on the way home, something happened that I haven’t experienced in years.  I was pulled over by one of Harris County’s finest.  It’d been years since my last brush with ‘the law’ and I gotta tell ya, you forget the havoc those red and blue flashing lights wreak on a human heart.  Nerves kick in.  Blood pumps at 300 times its normal speed. Ridiculous scenarios race through your brain.

“What if there’s some crazy fugitive driving a similar car?  What if they’ve been told to shoot to kill?”

Because, here’s the deal.  I wasn’t street car racing (surprisingly enough, I was well within the posted speed limit).  I wasn’t ‘driving under the influence’.  I hadn’t coasted through a red light.  I was in a line of cars, on a two-lane road, headed for the highway a mile or so up ahead.  So, what the hell was going on?  Why me?  Are they finally gonna drag me in for that MIP I failed to pay in 1989?  But wait, we took care of that back in ‘93.  Oh, God…they think I’m a fugitive.

Tap, tap, tap on my window.  I jump.  Then roll it down.  “Yes, officer?” I think my voice is shaking.  Calm down!

“Do you know why I pulled you over ma’am?” 

Why do they always ask that?  Like you’re gonna volunteer - ”I believe I was going 30 to 40 miles over the speed limit. I’ll wait here for you to write up the ticket.”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” I replied.  And I meant it.

“Well, ma’am (he was my age), you neglected to signal when the lanes merged from two to one.”

Really?

“Uh, okay…I just followed the arrow to the right…didn’t realize I was required to signal.” I may have smiled and batted an eyelash.

“Right, well, if you don’t have the right-of-way, you’re required to signal.” It’s clear he was feeling a little uncomfortable at this point…possibly realizing the absurdity of the reason for this stop.

He took my license (but not my ‘proof of insurance’ - that was, of course, sitting on my desk at home), and went back to the squad car to see if I was an escaped convict.

“Well, ma’am,” he said when he returned. “Put that new insurance card in your glove box (hehe), and make sure you tell your friends that they must signal to right-of-way traffic when lanes merge.”

Uh huh.  I’ll get right on that.

“Um…okay,” I said, flashed another coy smile, and watched as he fidgeted a few feet from my window.  He was feeling pretty foolish at this point.  He knew, that I knew, there was a better use for his time - like breaking up a domestic dispute, or wrestling a gun from Joe Horn.  In this situation, I had the upper hand.  Which is a rarity when dealing with law enforcement.  I think I’ll revel in it, I thought.  And I did.  Until I felt a little sorry for him.  And realized he was kinda cute.

“Don’t forget to tell your friends,” he nervously repeated.

Well, now you’re just embarrassing yourself.

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