So last week I’m cruising along right near my house with two of my boys when I drive by a police officer running a speed trap.

“Ah ha!” I thought to myself as I slurped my Dunks, “Some suckah’s gettin’ bus-ted.”

I knew it wasn’t me because I was not speeding much at all.

Two seconds later, his lights went on right behind me.

Being smug: not working out well for me since 1973!

NO SUCH LUCK. THEY WERE OFF DUTY ASSISTING SOME LADIES AT DISCO KARAOKE NIGHT. SIGH.

I didn’t even have a chance to get nervous about what I did, because all of a sudden from the way back, five year old started hollering as I lowered my window, “OH no! Mom, are you going to go to jail?? Oh no!” No, I am not, son. I’m drinking coffee, not Jack Daniels! Shame on me for forgetting to leave the evening news on that ONE time! 

I grabbed for my stylin’ license of which I’m so proud (and by that I mean, I hope the DMV photographer comes down with a temporary, yet debilitating, disease next time my license is due) and looked in my side view mirror to see the corner of the police officer’s mouth turning into a smile.

He turned out to be a super cool guy, and we both assured 5 year old I was not going to the slammer. That day. (For all I know, the kid was hoping I hit the clink for a while. How do I really know why he was asking? He might have had visions of swinging from the curtain rods and eating cookies in bed for all I know!)  He was kind enough to joke with the boys for a while and told me to get my burnt out taillight fixed–which was my grand transgression. (After he ran my license to make sure I wasn’t the sketchiest person ever to cruise around with two pint sized accomplices in a pink Land’s End nerd herd polo shirt. You never know.)

Had he not been so cool, I was totally prepared to bring my high school debate team (shut up) skillz to the sitch.  Because really, how would I know the light was busted? Why didn’t anyone tell me I had rear end problems? (Here I thought my muffin top middle was my problem area. Badum, dum.)

Getting a taillight fixed is kind of more annoying than you’d think, by the way. I thought it would be bad form to call the police officer back and tell him that. But there was no way I was bringing the brood with me–so I knew it had to wait a few days. I waited to go when the hubs got home from work one night–while I chanced a second encounter with Officer Friendly that I can only imagine wouldn’t have gone so well if he caught me schlumping about town with ass trouble still.

I tried to be good citizen and patronize a local gas station. But when I called and politely asked when they could take me/how long it would take, I got hollered at in half English/half another language I am not well versed in from school or PBS Kids. “You comah in and it fazukababa take sumpagowlaboo how long it take, la-deeeee! Growl! Exclamation/growly mystery language!”

“Ummmm? I’ll be right down as soon as you…”  DIAL TONE. Oh shoot, I disconnected our call. My bad.

I only wanted to know because the grubby, independent gas station front for mean old men who want to yell at innocent tail light victims has no waiting room and I would’ve been standing on a curb inhaling stale butt smoke and gasoline while they fixed my tail light shotgunned motor oil. I mean, I’m not opposed to a little second hand fumes in the name of supporting the little guy, but I didn’t want to be mistaken for a middle aged chubby hausfrau street walker. That’s all. So, I chose to take my biz to the conglomerate dealership with the coffee and comfy chairs, and I watched Ellen in blissful, fume free silence while I waited for my car. They smiled, called me ma’am (which I used to hate, but let’s face it, it’s a big step up from la-deeeee!), and I was in and out of the place for $20 in half an hour.

On second thought, maybe I should write the officer a thank you note. Most peaceful half hour I’ve had in a while!