On Wednesday, my day started as such: I dropped off 6, yes I said 6, rowdy elementary schoolers in carpool. I then hurried to get my piping hot latte to bring back to school to volunteer. After purchasing my piping hot latte I proceeded to rest it on my center console as my dashboard cup holders were filled with important necessities like barrettes, Polly Pockets, and a part from a McDonalds happy meal toy. Insert sound of plan screeching to a halt here. I’m sure you know how this story goes… despite my best efforts to hold the coffee in its cardboard cup holder carrier, it flipped out and splashed onto the middle row of my oversized (Due to carpool needs) SUV.
So, here was my dilemma:
Do I run home,ring out my car so it doesn’t reek of spoiled milk and race to school to be an on time for volunteering?
Do I run back into Starbucks, while the coffee seeps deeper into the carpet? Wait in another line to get a new piping hot latte and clean my car with those brown Starbucks napkins, which wouldn’t absorb the contents of an eyedropper. And of course be late for volunteering?
Well, it goes without saying that I chose the obvious. The taste of that latte was enough to mask any guilt I may have felt when I saw those sad Kindergarteners. It did not however mask the odor of milk rotting in the sun, which hit me like a Trenta sized latte when I re-entered my car. No worries, I’ll rush home, clean the car, write the article that’s due at iVillage in less than one hour and be on my way to the pedicure I’ve been dreaming of all week. Well, as it turns out, getting 16ounces of coffee out of a car without a wetvac is yeomen’s work. 40 minutes later, I was without an article and needed to be on my way to my pedi. Ok, I can do this, I will grab my new latte and my netbook and write the article while getting my relaxing, long overdue, escapist pedicure. Well, scratch the escapist part, mainly because it’s used in the wrong context and also because it would now be out of the question.
In the interest of saving time I took out my iPhone and started recording what I was going to write in my article on Dragon Dictation (voice recognition software). I prayed it would comprehend enough of my speech to enable me to simply edit while getting my relaxing, long overdue pedicure.
While holding the phone directly at my mouth, allowing me to enunciate perfectly, I drove past a policeman on a motorcycle. He looked me dead in the eye with utter disdain. Look, another Jappy girl blabbing into her phone, I should pull her over. I looked as he pulled behind me and… phew, he was moving to the other lane. I wasn’t speeding, well speed talking. Let’s face it, I could have been like all the other “Road Pirates”: typing with one hand and watching the road with one eye. I was being responsible and I gave myself a pat on the back. Of course to him I was just some distracted blabber and he doubled back into my lane and turned on his lights. Over I pulled, ready to explain my responsible choice to use a voice recognition app, but what would he care? It’s not illegal to talk on the phone in Florida.
Cliché cop with graying moustache: “Yes, license, registration and you’re insurance card.”
Naive me: “Um, was I speeding?”
Officer: “Nope, you have an expired tag ma’am. Are you aware of that?”
Dumbass Me: “Yes, my husband just sent in the check” Why didn’t I tell him that I wasn’t just gabbing to some friend? I’m working mom trying to make ends meet. Or maybe I could have told him how badly I needed a pedicure and shown him my dried out calloused feet or at the very least flashed him my tits. But noooo, I went with the ‘check’s in the mail.’
I rummaged through my glove box to find nothing, but the original car sticker, some McDonald happy meal Barbie toys, 6 pairs of 3-D glasses that I keep so I don’t have to pay the extra $3 and a rubber-band.
Me trying to infuse some humor: “Ummm, no registration or insurance card. I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this being pulled over stuff, am I?” oopsie, silly me. Boop boop be do.
Smiling Officer: “Don’t worry ma’am, I got all I need. Even though you clearly don’t.”
Sexy Me: “Oh, I got what you need right here, Mr. Officer.”
Okay, the last line didn’t happen… This wasn’t a scene from Cannonball Run.
As he went back to his motorcycle to write me up, I emailed iVillage that my article would be late and called The Strand salon to tell them my feet would be late. As the policeman got to my window and began to explain my infractions, The Strand’s receptionist picked up. I gave the policeman the “just a sec” finger and proceeded to alert the receptionist of my current predicament. Holy shit, did I just give the “gimme a minute” sign? it was a natural reflex, I didn’t want to be rude to the receptionist, I mean duh? I really am bad at this being pulled over stuff.
Apparently, he could have given me something like 74 violations, but he only ticketed me for one. I imagine signaling him to hold his horses didn’t make him feel too intimidating, but he seemed to take it well. In the end, I had to get a relaxing, escapist, long overdue pedicure and turned in my piece an hour late. Then I locked myself in my house until morning.