Officer Friendly and The Warning Ticket: Or...a Missive on Getting Pulled Over...Yet Again

Officer Friendly

When I was in third grade, Officer Friendly came to our classroom to lecture us on "Stranger Danger." I was more of a fan of MacGruff the Crime Dog and Smokey the Bear--but hey, our classroom had its very own Officer Friendly: complete with the outfit and everything. Officer Friendly also went on to explain about how stealing and how taking things from other people was wrong. I sank lower and lower into my child-size, third-grade seat

Unwittingly, he hurled me into the abyss of a moral and ethical crisis that still lingers with me. Because I was a thief--a stealer of someone else's property. I stole a candy from Brach's--an orange slice, to be exact--and surreptitiously consumed it while sitting on the bench of the upright piano in our living room. (Since then, I have read the sign that says "Samples: Five Cents." That helped. Sometimes I give a quarter.)

Suffice it to say, my life of crime was rather short--age eight, but my fear of the police officer remains. They have the car with the intimidating lights, the outfit, the scary sunglasses...and they have GUNS! 'Nuff said.

(One time I caught a police officer checking me out in a grocery store--not like in "I-want-to arrest-you-and-haul-your-ass-to jail" kind of way but in a "I-really-think-you're-cute" kind of way. I avoided eye contact and left the premises immediately.)

Car and Driver: Why I Really Need to Start Reading Auto Quarterly or at least the Car Manual

I know nothing about cars--admittedly, I am the Stereotype.

Cars work like magic--you put the key in the thingie, turn it to the right...and voila--it turns on. You put the thing to D, put your foot on the gas pedal...and you're off. My car has leather and an air-freshener. I am happy. It has a nice sound system with a fab six-disc CD player. I am happy. It's a pretty color.

Yes, I am the Stereotype.

(I used to have my oil changed at the Jiffy Lube in Irving, Texas--where they guy wouldn't let me pull my car into the garage after I grossly miscalculated distance. It was documented in my file and everything.)

You want to talk about literary theory? I'm your girl. Austen? Ditto. Grammar and style? Let's have a little confab.

But if you start mentioning things like pistons or transmissions or....gosh...a spark plug. No clue. At all. (And, really, I am okay with that. Some things just don't interest me. As much as I'd like to be Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny, I have enough girlfriends who are car people--they can out- Marisa Marisa.)

Sigh...I need an oil change.

My Experiences with the Officers Of the Law: Getting Pulled over Texas-Style

Pantego, Texas 2003

I didn't know much about the small town of Pantego--it was a means-to-an-end to the get to the highway, so I could get to my job in Fort Worth. The stretch of road leading to I-20 was laden with school zones and known to be a recognized speed-trap. For reasons, I can't remember, I had to leave work early, got on the highway, exited to the road that would take me to home. Apparently, I'd hit the "school zone" with no flashing lights--as soon as I realized that's where I was, I slowed down.

Apparently, not soon enough: the tell-tale flashing lights behind me indicated that. I was being pulled over! I pulled into the exit of a school just letting out (yep, that's me!) and contemplated my fate--gathering my driver's license and insurance, I wondered: Alcatraz, Sing-Sing, Huntsville?

The office swaggered over. I rolled down the window.

Big Scary Guy: "M'am, do you realize you JUST pulled into an exit area for a school?"

Me: "Um, Well, This is the first time I've been pulled over, and I didn't know what to do."

Big Scary Guy: "Do you know how fast you were going?"

Me: "Um. Well, I was going the speed limit--but the lights weren't flashing...and then I saw them and slowed down."

Big Scary Guy: "Is your address current? It doesn't match your insurance." Me: "Well, I just got married--still getting things settled."

Big Scary Guy: "Oh, really...when?"

Me: "Um...last year? In May." (Note to everyone out there: please...if ever asked this question...lie. Don't be like me. I get so nervous in these situations....I'd probably confess to have ordered the killing of Hoffa.)

Big Scary Guy: "Why haven't you changed your name?"

Me: "Um."

Big Scary Sexist Guy: "I'm writing you a citation for the school zone and lack of name change."

He takes care of business and swaggers back to his ve-hi-cle. (Another note: there is no legal reason to change your name upon being married...and yet...while in traffic court, I was asked that very thing by the judge (an old, nice man actually). Paying the fine sucked...defensive driving on DVD sucked...but traffic court rocked. I observed everyone.)

My Experiences with the Officers Of the Law: Getting Pulled over Texas-Style: II

Somehow when I bought my shiny-new Toyota, it failed to come with a shiny new front license plate on the front of my shiny, new car. (It did, however, come equipped with a Notorious B.I.G. CD that one of the detailers left. Thank you, my friend.)

Now, having a healthy respect for the aesthetic, I didn't really WANT a front plate on my car. It ruined the look.

Apparently, law and car fashion didn't co-exist reasonably.

I was driving to work--the traffic on 20 was flowing smoothly. I was listening to some Janis on my CD player--driving the speed limit--enjoying spring in Texas...when...I see those same flashing lights behind me. Damn, damn, damn, and damn, I'm on the highway. Where do I go?

Luckily, the officer has an answer as evidenced by the vocal sounds emanating from his car: "Please pull over immediately."

Hmmm...what did I do? I got speaker action.

This speaker action had me exiting the highway on the seedier side of Fort Worth. (It is certainly NOT the softer side of Sears.)

Big Scary State Trooper: "Do you know why I pulled you over?"

Me: (Let's dispense with the rhetorical questions...as you're about to tell me why.)

Big Scary State Trooper: "You don't have a front license plate!!!!"

(We have serial killers, Craigslist Killers, and really hateful people out there. Just sayin'.)

Me: "Um."

(Yes, I'm linguistically gifted.)

Me (again): (Inspiration struck--I am, after all, a Lifetime Thespian Member) "My husband was supposed to take care of that!" (I gave him the smirk of "whaddaya gonna do?" ) He obliged and wrote me a warning.

Interlude

People wax poetic about the "I'll-think-about-it tomorrow" Scarlett O'Hara. Her moxie. Her curtains. Her 17-inch waistline. (I appreciate the pop culture, but alas, Ms. O'Hara is fiction.)

And yet...I respect this fictional minx. She can "think about it tomorrow." I can beat that girl to the punch. Quite frankly, I don't have an end date: next week, next month, even next year will do.

I may procrastinate, but I'm pretty.

Minnesota: Three Times in a Year, Seriously: 2007-Present

Okay, granted, I am not great at taking care of important things. Like my MN license or plates. But I'd spent a brief time in Chicago that didn't work for me. And I clung to my Texas roots like a fly to flypaper.

Minnesota was new to me, but I was so glad to be here. Minnesota had my mom (YAY me!). (I know other people have great moms, but I am such a fan of mine.)

Something happened when I moved here. I fit in.


Somehow in the course of my existence (Pick-a-mix candy aside), I had gotten lucky. Mama was there with our coupon-sharing sessions...I made friends. I had a good job. And then I met Man.

Man is now my boyfriend--who happens to be an attorney. I love asking Man questions. About the Magna Carta. About Habeus Corpus. About whether I can sue someone for being an asshole. Or having bad hair. Mainly, I love just having Man around. He crinkles his brow before answering questions. I love tucking my head into his shoulder--smelling the bleach of his shirt. 'You smell like MAN, " I tell him. Hence, the name.

During our initial courtship, Man had discovered my Scarlett tendencies. I was always running late--and casually mentioned to Man the State of the Union regarding my tires as related to Minnesota driving (bad, bad, and more bad). Finally, one day, Man checked my tires.

"Sweetness?" Man called to me while hooking very important-looking things up to my tires, 'Do you ever check your tire pressure?"

"Tire Pressure?" I gave him the same look I give my dentist when he asks me if I floss. "No."

Man did his Man thing by checking this and that...and muttering to himself. Once he was done, he looked at me and said, 'Sweetness, these tires need to be replaced immediately. They're cracked and worn. In the meantime, I'll fill up your tires. No wonder you were sliding. I don't feel safe with you driving."

Man looked concerned. I cried. I wasn't used to having someone look out for me. To make sure my tires worked. That I was safe. Man not only smelled good; he rocked. I vowed to take care the tire situation that week.

It's just...well... I was busy with work and had a hair appt. that Thursday. (My tires may have been crap--but my hair looked good.)

I called Man after my appt--giggling about the state of my hair and my need to stop at Chipotle. As I was driving home, we continued our discussion. I saw the flashing lights behind me. The car in front of me stopped--as did I. "OH, fuck," I told Man, "I'm being pulled over. I'll call you back."

Minnesota's Finest came up...examined the car in front of me...came back and asked me, "Is there a man in your car?" I took a good cursory look around--I had a large UPS box in the back--and the best I could determine--that was nary a man to be had.

"No," I told him. He went back to his ve-hi-cle doing whatever it is that they do.

He came back out...and we essentially had the Minnesota version of a Come-to-Jesus: him asking me I'd be driving on MN roads all this time illegally. Gave me a warning ticket-stating that they saw an out-of-state license plate leaving the spa. (Um...yes. God Bless Texas!)

I got a warning ticket. I got new tires, a new license, and new registration the next day.

February of this year.

I am driving to work listening to "I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked." (I'm lucky to have such cool co-workers with fab taste in music.). I take a big slurp out of my Diet Coke can...when I AGAIN see the flashing lights behind me: I look around my car--tail light? Diet Coke abuse? I pull over.

As I see the 19-year old get out of the car, I have a Cougar moment. I check my makeup in the mirror--and am wearing none. Not even lipstick. His Boy-Smiley Self comes to my window and says, 'HEY, do you know your tabs are expired?" "Tabs, tabs--what are tabs? OH--he means tags!")

BSS: "They expired last month."

Me: Really? (Note to man-child: people DIE every day--and you're worried about a fucking sticker on a license plate!)

Me: Thanks! Will take care of it. And I do.

May of this year.

I am no saint--I try to fly right-with the occasional lapse in judgement. Scarlett is still a constant companion--I still procrastinate...and she's there taunting me with those fucking curtains. Cow.

Today, I am running to Wal-mart for essentials: vitamin water, Sprite, and light bulbs. My house is dark and I have been queasy.

I turn onto the residential street to home--listening to Mick--talking about buying insta-cakes and frozen steaks (a concept that I could get behind, BTW) when I see the shimmery, shiney lights of a blue-and-white (SUV! natch) behind me. My brain casts a quick once-over around me: no Coke, check. No meth, check. Maybe it's the vitamin water. WAIT--maybe I had been speeding!! But no, I had not. I pulled over--running my front tire into the curb--pretty much having an internal version of a meltdown.

The Minnesota version of Barnie Fife raps on my window. I roll it down. "Hi. Do you know why I pulled you over?" (Note: No...am scared...I need an oil change...and you'll send me up the river next week.)

BF: "Do you have a front Minnesota license plate?" (ooo, ooo!! I had a question I could answer!)

Me: "Yes! It's in my briefcase!"

BF: Well, Minnesota law requires a front plate. (Deja Texas, anyone?) (At this point, I'm having a Man Flashback--where Man has told me that license plates on the front of my ve-hi-cle are a good idea.) Really, what ends up happening is my version of a meltdown--I take Barney down the path of my brief marriage and purchase of said ve-hi-cle. Etc., etc.

Barney seems to be a pretty good sport and very nice--perhaps it's the shaking of my hands? Then he does the unthinkable and asks for my license--which at this point is intimately ensconsced with other plastic spending forms in my wallet. "Sorry!" I wheeze and shake, "This just scares me."

I love my new fast-fast friend, Barney. He waits patiently and says, "it's okay. We're all friends here--take your time. I'm mainly worried about the wind outside carrying me away." (Rightfully so.)

I shakily dig through my wallet and had Barney my license. He purues my license and then takes a look at my windows. He asks when I bought the car: "2003!" I chriped, proudly--leaving out the ex-husband, awful financing situation.

Barney: Did you have tinting put in your windows since then?

What?! ME! I looked at Barney as though he had three heads: "No, sir. I bought the car this way." Apparently--like in hot sauce, there is a difference. There are Minnesota-tinted windows. And the rest of the world. (Given that it's ash-gray eight months out of the year here, I can see his point. Perhaps I don't need as much tint.)

But still. Tinting? Really?

I have been pulled over three times in one year--and I have avoided any kind of ticket or fine. And while I am thankful, I am irritated. Because what I would like to say is: "Please, PLEASE who fucking cares about the tint on my windows!? Toyota didn't.

Please leave me and my vitamin water-drinking, front-license-plate -eschewing-posse ALONE. Until we start making meth in the back seats of our sedans and selling it to the world....please! Go concentrate on the bad guys of which I am not one!