The Time We Accidentally Ended Up with a Neon Orange Mustang

The Time We Accidentally Ended Up with a Neon Orange Mustang

Saturday, April 30, 2016

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Our rental car was a 2016 Kia Soul, simple & silver, easy to drive & not to tough to figure our. Mike drives a silver Soul, so it felt familiar.

And then, on day two of our trip, the Soul wouldn't start. There it sat, dead in the driveway of a rental home, & when the AAA tech came out to give us a jump, he told us the battery had a faulty cell. "I got it started," he told us, "but if you turn it off, there's no guarantee you'll be able to turn it back on." So we hopped in the car & drove back to the airport to exchange it for something more reliable.

We couldn't get through to the car rental company on our drive back, & we waited in line for almost half an hour when we arrived. We were visiting Hilton Head, a vacation destination where most people's week begins on Saturdays. It was a Saturday. The airport was slammed. We worried they wouldn't have any available cars for us.

"Maybe we'll end up with some snazzy sports car that no one else wants to pay for," I joked.

The car they gave us was a 2016 Ford Mustang - neon orange, so bright it nearly glowed in the dark.

I could not stop laughing.

We were in town for my Uncle Dennis's wedding to his new wife, Aline; they moved from Virginia to Pennsylvania to South Carolina, & now they're just a few miles from the ocean. He's one of those fake uncles, not related by blood, but I've never called him anything else. He & my dad were best friends in high school & into adulthood, & my Aunt Sue, who died a few years ago after a long struggle with MS, was one of my mom's closest friends. Their three sons are my cousins; they feel like family, period.

My Uncle Dennis was also my dad's road rally partner; he was the driver & my dad was the navigator, winding their way through dark Ohio backroads throughout the '80s and into the early '90s, before my uncle moved to Virginia & before my dad got sick. They built a car together, a yellow Datsun 510. They went to races together. They were car people.

And so the fact that my mom & I ended up driving this goddamn Mustang - a convertible, no less - the weekend of my uncle's wedding felt like a gift. Or a joke, maybe. Or both. Something from above.

I could barely get into the car the first time because the passenger-side seat was moved so far up. Who the hell is that tiny? And then, my mom couldn't figure out how to turn the remote-start on, so I had to go ask the Budget employee for help, laughing all the while. My mom marveled at how smoothly it drove, how fast it got, how uncomfortable it made her. I took endless, amused Snapchats from the dash.

It's funny the way you can tell that people are judging you when you drive a fancy car like that. My mom accidentally cut someone off when she was pulling out of a parking lot, & the other driver went full-on road ragey, honking & tailing us & flipping us off. I'm sure he expected, when he passed us, to see some slick-haired douchebag behind the wheel, not my grey-haired librarian of a mother who's barely five feet tall. I wished there were a bumper sticker on the back announcing "THIS IS A RENTAL," some way to assure the general, judgy public that I drive a damn Mazda in real life.

When we pulled into the parking lot of the reception hall, my GPS loudly announced, "You have arrived." I laughed again: "We have arrived," I joked as we swung our snazzy car into a parking space. We were both dressed up, sunglasses on, hair blowing in the wind, our jerky car standing out amidst a lot full of, like, silver Civics.

Admittedly, we were relieved to turn it back in to the rental agency before we caught our flight home that Monday afternoon. By then, it was abundantly clear that we're not neon sports car people. Still, it was a perfect joke from my dad, from the universe, from coincidence. I can only imagine what a laugh he would've gotten, watching his girls drive around a beach town in a goddamn bright orange Mustang. What a ride.

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The Time a Guy at AutoZone Made Me Cry in a Good Way

The Time a Guy at AutoZone Made Me Cry in a Good Way

Thursday, February 5, 2015

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 I'm driving down route 59 in Stow, a few miles away from my house, when I remember that I've got illegal plates on my car. More accurately, it is illegal that I've not yet put plates on my car, the one I bought mid-December, & am still riding around town on dealership tags. My real plates arrived by mail while I was stranded in New York, but I haven't even tried to put them on yet because I keep forgetting. I'm bound to get pulled over soon, though, when I'll be forced to pay an actual price for my procrastination.

I'm about to grab lunch & run some errands, but all of a sudden I'm anxious as hell about these plates. I decide to make a pit stop first, pulling into an Autozone along the way. "I have an embarrassing question," I begin, & the guy behind the counter - his nametag says he's Don - looks at me like he's expecting me to be a total moron. To be fair, I feel like one.

"I just moved back here from D.C.," I explain a little nervously, like maybe Don will take pity on me if I seem like I'm totally new to suburban life. "I just bought a new car, & my plates came in this week, but I haven't put them on yet. I don't know what kind of screws I need, & I don't know where my screwdriver is, & I was just wondering... is that something you could help me with? I know this is sort of crazy."

Don seems a little confused, but he follows me out to my car & takes a look at my plates. It is approximately 20 degrees outside, & Don is wearing shorts. And no gloves. I, on the other hand, am bundled up like an Eskimo & still chattering.

"What brings you to Ohio?" Don asks, striking up small talk as he screws my back plate in. We talk a little bit about where I was & why I'm back here; he tells me about life in Montana, where he used to live, & says it was so rural that it makes our hometown seem metropolitan. Amidst the chatter, I apologize repeatedly for asking him to help me such an easy task, but he never once makes me feel like I'm stupid for it.

"I'm gonna need to sell you some screws," he says, somewhat apologetically, & I follow him back into the store, where he rings me up for a package of $2.99 screws.

"How much do I owe you for helping me put these on?" I ask.

"You don't," he says.

"Come on," I insist, but no dice. He rings me up for the screws - they cost me $3.19 with tax - & then we head back outside, where he uses my new screws to attach my new license plates.

"You're all set!" Don announces, & I thank him profusely while trying to hand him the $15 in cash that I've been clutching in my right hand.

"Will you please let me pay you for helping me with this?" I ask, borderline begging. I am possibly the most thankful person to ever be thankful.

"Not a chance," he says. "Just promise me that the next time you need something for your car, you'll stop at an AutoZone." 

Will do, Don.

I am suddenly overwhelmed by this incredibly kind interaction, one that could have been - should have been? - incredibly embarrassing & would, basically anywhere else, have cost me much more than $3.19. I am suddenly very, very thankful to be from such a good place full of so many good people.

As I thank Don a final time, I choke up a little bit, & I'm sure he can tell that my eyes are a little bit misty.

"Welcome back to Ohio," he says. And that's that.

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Shit Happens. Literally.

Shit Happens. Literally.

Friday, December 19, 2014

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I'm not the kind of person who discusses or blogs about bodily functions, so bear with me. This is actually a story about my new car, I promise.

Look, I'm terrified of driving. As much as I hated relying on full buses & delayed Metro trains to take me where I needed to go, one of the best things about living in a city was not driving. I'm not very good at it, & I am very, very anxious about it (you're shocked, I know).

But you can't live in the suburbs of Ohio without a car. You just can't. For four weeks, I've lived like a 15-year-old, relying on my mother to drop me off everywhere & coordinating our schedules so I could borrow her car for a taste of independence every now & then. Cars are expensive, & car-shopping is terrifying, & I am not a fan of driving, but the suburbs don't care about any of that. I had to get a car, & soon.

After a frantic Facebook post about my plans to shop for a car on my own, my uncle offered to accompany me. He did all kinds of research, found a few cars he liked for me, & we went out for a few test drives on Monday night. I found a blue 2011 Mazda 6 I liked (zoom, zoom), & we made plans to go back & seal the deal on Thursday. I was excited to be able to get places without my mother's assistance, but I wasn't necessarily excited about having a car - mostly because I was (am) still terrified of everything that accompanies the having of a car.

I talked to my therapist about some of my nervousness surrounding the whole process - getting a loan, signing my life away, making huge payments every month, &, especially, trying my damndest not to die in a fiery car accident (which is my biggest fear). Last night, when the car was finally in my possession, I told her that I was afraid to drive it because it seemed likely that I would mess it up somehow - that I would quickly destroy this pretty, shiny, new thing that I just spent a startling amount of my money to obtain.

She told me a story of her own Mazda, purchased brand new a few years ago, which she immediately drove to a relative's house for a visit. When she came outside a few hours later, she discovered that someone had backed into her brand new car while it was parked in the street. It wasn't totaled, but she did need to get a new bumper - less than 24 hours after getting the car. The moral of the story, of course, is that shit happens, & that you can't always control it, no matter how hard you try. And that cars are just material things -  expensive material things, but material things nonetheless.

I was trying to remind myself of her guidance as I sat in my new car today, trying to psych myself up to drive it. I couldn't get it to warm up, couldn't figure out how to defrost my back window, etc. etc. etc. As I flipped through the user's manual, I remembered something I'd left inside, & I got out of the car to run back into the house. That's when I saw it.

Shit. Everywhere. Literal shit.

Turns out, I stepped in a pile snow-covered dog doo in our driveway, likely deposited by my neighbor's tiny canines. And it was everywhere. All over the ground, all over my favorite black boots - and all over my pretty new car. Just... a big pile of shit, smeared into the driver's-side floormat the way an infant uses fingerpaints.

I called my mom. I sobbed. I got some carpet cleaner, & I scrubbed. I looked into the cost of having a singular floormat professionally cleaned. And then I sucked it up, wiped away my runny mascara, cleaned off my shoe... & laughed. Because what else can you do? At least I didn't have to replace my bumper.

Shit happens, man. Sometimes I feel like it happens to me a lot more than it does to the general populace, but it sure does give me a lot of stories to tell. I mean, of course I covered my new car in dog crap within 12 hours of purchasing it. Of course I did.

So much for that new car smell.

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Three Ways New Jersey Handicaps its Drivers

Three Ways New Jersey Handicaps its Drivers

Thursday, May 2, 2013

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Let me preface this post by saying that I don't hate New Jersey anymore. I don't. OK? So don't give me crap about giving New Jersey crap. It's kinda nice here, actually, & I don't hate it, but I do think there are a few key ways that the state of New Jersey is totally shafting its lifelong residents when it comes to preparing them to drive in states that are not New Jersey. Observe:

1. Yellow lights last forever. When Nathan first mentioned this to me, I thought he was mental. No way do the yellow lights here last noticeably longer than they do anywhere else! Right? Wrong. The more I drove in New Jersey, the clearer it became that something is up with this yellow situation. You could be two blocks away when a light turns yellow & still make it through before it changes to red.
   
   I read a lengthy, detailed story about yellow & red lights in New Jersey townships, but I don't have a great grasp of traffic-related technical jargon, so I'm still sort of lost. All I know is that when I'm in any other state, I now find myself slamming on the brakes to stop before red hits, forgetting that I've become accustomed to freakingly long yellows.

2. Turning left is unheard of. I've already explained to you the concept & functionality of jughandles, & I shared with you just how weird I think they are. As time goes on - & as I become more familiar with my surroundings - I admit that I've begun to see the value in jughandles, even if I still find them wholly unnecessary. But let's be clear: I still know how to turn left on green. I may not have the legal opportunity to do it in New Jersey, but I'm familiar with the idea, & I won't hesitate to implement it in states that will allow me to (slash require me to, because how else would you get places if you couldn't turn left & didn't have jughandles?!)
   
   I have a friend, though, who's Jersey born & raised, & I recently learned that after Hurricane Sandy, when all the traffic lights were out, she panicked when she reached an intersection where she had to turn left - even though so one was coming at her from the other direction. She just, like, couldn't do it. Not turning left is so ingrained in Jersey residents' driving habits that trying to turn left is, it seems, foreign to & difficult for them. That's some Zoolander shit right there.

3. The thing with not pumping your own gas. It's illegal to pump your own gas in New Jersey, which is absurd & can cause confusion. Sometimes it's great, like when it's very hot or very cold outside, & you don't have to get out of your climate-controlled vehicle to refuel. Sometimes it's awful, like when there are seven open pumps & one attendant on duty & three people in line before you. You could gas & go on your own, if you were allowed (& knew how...), but instead, you have to wait in line like a helpless, obedient child until the attendant gets to you. So much time is wasted at highway rest stops this way. And also, back to my original point, a great many native New Jerseyans do not know how to pump their own gas - & are are possibly proud of it?

Also, as a related side note, I learned just yesterday that in the Garden State, it's illegal to talk on your phone while you drive. Quite illegal, in fact, as can attest a fried of mine who received a $100 ticket for committing this offense, which he, too, did not realize was a criminal one. The more you know.

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A Cause Worth Fighting For

A Cause Worth Fighting For

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

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Angels parted the heavens & sang songs of  "Alleluia!" directly into my ear when a friend posted this to my Facebook wall this morning:

Indeed, the New York Times reports,

It is the peculiar fate of the New Jersey driver, as indelible as a shoreside weekend or a Bruce Springsteen composition, if less easily romanticized.

For when the denizens of Mr. Springsteen’s “Born to Run” take their hemi-powered drones for a scream down the boulevard, one detail is perhaps omitted: If ever those renegade drivers resolved to make a left turn, they probably suffered the indignity of taking a right-hand loop first. 

The loop is called a jughandle, a traffic formation that looks as it sounds: an unintuitive veer to the far right when you want to turn left. 

While other states have been known to use jughandles, none seems to have matched New Jersey in volume or reputation. 

After more than a half-century, though, the jughandle — so intertwined with the Garden State that it is also called a “Jersey left” — faces a threat. On Monday, a proposal to ban future jughandles cleared the State Senate’s transportation committee, allowing for a full vote and prompting a zealous debate over the state’s signature driving quirk.

I've only sort of learned how to drive in New Jersey. If passage of this proposal will help future displaced non-Jerseyans survive on the mean streets of the Garden State, count me in. Are you listening, Governor Christie? NO MORE JUGHANDLES! NO MORE JUGHANDLES!

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Nice Jug(handle)s

Nice Jug(handle)s

Friday, October 19, 2012

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I'm scared of driving. Maybe I've told you this before.

I've definitely told you this before.

Last summer, I wrote about all the things that freaked me out about driving in New England. And then? I moved to New Jersey.

Guys, this place is nuts. On the road, perfectly nice citizens become crazed, angry maniacs. Let's discuss. 

The issue here is jughandles. Sounds like fat lovehandles, right? Wrong.

Basically, you can't turn left in New Jersey. The whole state appears to have been laid out by Derek Zoolander. Want to turn left? You have to turn right first, then loop around to the other side of the street, which is presumably a less busy road than the one you wanted to turn left onto, & there you can either go straight (which is, essentially, the lefthand turn you needed to make) or turn left, which is the equivalent of a U-Turn. This also means that if you miss a turn, you have to go down to the next jughandle & drive allll the way back. Here, someone drew you an example!

This guy explains them way better than I ever could. To summarize, though, jughandles were apparently created to ease the flow of traffic in New Jersey, but they mean, essentially, that you have to sometimes almost literally go the extra mile to get wherever you're going.

Furthermore, as that other dude correctly notes, GPS is wholly useless here. My British-voiced Garmin, affectionately named Daniel, has no idea what to do here. No idea. He's constantly recalculating, telling me about it in that judgy robotic UK accent, like I'm doing something wrong when he's supposed to be telling me where to go. "Turn left" doesn't help here, Daniel! And don't even get me started on this shitty new iPhone map, which the other day told me the closest post office was a four-hour drive away.

There are other things that are weird about driving in New Jersey. Like an outrageous number of concrete highway dividers, & yellow lights that last forever, & $12 highway tolls. But now I'm too worked up about jughandles to even tell you about them.

What I wouldn't give for a good, old, New England-style traffic circle right about now.

Welcome to the Garden State. Shut up & drive.

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You're So Vain, You Probably Think This License Plate is About You

You're So Vain, You Probably Think This License Plate is About You

Saturday, August 20, 2011

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I know my last two posts have been about driving, but bear with me, OK? Let's call it a series of sorts. We'll act like it was intentional. In fact, this post has been in the works for awhile, & now it's time for me to share it with you:

 

Apparently vanity plates are very inexpensive in New Hampshire, as evidenced by the fact that nearly everyone has one. I actually take bizarre joy in walking through parking lots now that I live here because there are so many ridiculous vanity plates to be found. My apartment complex's parking lot is jam-packed with them; the parking lot of the bus station is the best place to go plate-spotting because it's, like, the largest lot in the world. Or at least in New Hampshire.

Needless to say, I've been gathering photos for this post for awhile now. I actually had even more to choose from (60ish in total!), but I decided to cut 'em down for the sake of highlighting the really good stuff. Ladies & gentleman, I present you with 36 of the most stellar vanity plates in the Portsmouth area.

 

When I was 16, I drove a Dodge Colt (read: CLUNKER) & was desperate for a vanity plate that read "K8SCOLT." God bless my mother for refusing to shell out the cash for that atrocity.

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There's Nothing Right About a Boston Left

There's Nothing Right About a Boston Left

Friday, August 19, 2011

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I blogged yesterday about my New England driving woes, among them "sneaky left turns" - local drivers' habit of turning left in front of oncoming traffic as soon as the light turns from red to green. I thought I'd just encountered more than my fair share of rudeness on New Hampshire roads, but the post led to an incredible revelation: THE BOSTON LEFT IS AN ACTUAL THING.

Also known as a Pittsburgh Left, the Boston left is "a colloquial term for the driving practice of the first left-turning vehicle taking precedence over vehicles going straight through an intersection ... It is an illegal and controversial practice." (Yeah, I got that definition from Wikipedia. So sue me, this isn't a graded term paper.)

Conversation about the Boston Left on Twitter proved that it is controversial indeed. I'm told this is "common courtesy" in many places - not just New England or Pittsburgh. (As a Clevelander at heart, I like to pretend Pittsburgh doesn't exist, & that, if it does, it's backward as hell anyway, so for the purposes of this post, I shall ignore Pittsburgh.) (Except for the photo.) (Sorry, yinz.)  A fellow Ohioan even told me that it's so common in her part of the great Buckeye State that she'd never realized people don't do it!

Needless to say, I'm shocked. I am, quite clearly, up in arms about the concept of the Boston Left, & I have a lot of questions. Among them: How did this come about? Am I actually a jerk for following the rules of the road & honking at the people who sneak in left turns just as I'm about to propel myself legally forward? Do New Englanders recognize that this driving method is unique to them, or do they employ this practice when driving elsewhere, too? Is it taught in drivers' ed? If a left-turner causes an accident while observing the "common courtesy" of the Boston Left, who's at fault?

In closing, doesn't anyone else think this is nuts?

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Shut Up & Drive

Shut Up & Drive

Thursday, August 18, 2011

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Things I don't like about driving in New Hampshire:

1. Stupidly combined lanes
   At Ohio traffic lights, it's common for the straight lane & the right-turn lane to be one & the same. This makes sense, as neither requires waiting - when the light turns green,  you just go. In New Hampshire, however, the straight lane is usually combined with the left-turn lane, which means you can't go straight until the guy ahead of you (& the guy ahead of him & ahead of him) has turned left, which means waiting for oncoming traffic to subside... just so you can go straight. Am I taking crazy pills, or is this absolutely nonsensical?
   
   
2. Traffic circles
   Or roundabouts. Or rotaries. Or whatever you want to call them.I don't necessarily have a problem with them, as they're a fairly logical means of connecting multiple roads, but as I have The Worst Sense of Direction Ever, I spend a lot of time driving in circles. Literally.  
   
   
3. Sneaky left turns
   You know what people in New Hampshire looooove to do? Turn when it is not their turn to turn. (Say that five times fast.) But seriously. When stopped at a red light, it's common knowledge that the person heading straight has the right of way; the person waiting to turn left must, you know, wait. But not here. Here, the first person waiting to turn left typically hits the gas like a bat out of hell & turns left before the person going straight (i.e. me) has a chance to step on it. This is an accident waiting to happen. Also, it is rude. 
   
   
4. Drawbridges
   There are two in town, & they open every 30 minutes, which means that you're approximately 100% likely to get stuck waiting on one. And did I mention that one of them isn't even drivable anymore because it was condemned? Yeah, they'll be rebuilding it in 2014. Convenient.

Things I do like about driving in New Hampshire include this license plate, & perhaps this license plate alone:

He lives! Kreacher will be so pleased.

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Live Free or Die (And Other New England Oddities)

Live Free or Die (And Other New England Oddities)

Friday, April 22, 2011

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I've been keeping a running mental list that I thought it was time to put to paper blog. I like to call it "Reasons Why New England is Really Freaking Weird."

1. When you order from a Starbucks, the barista asks if it's "for here or to take away." This seriously happens at nearly all coffee shops, as far as I can tell, & it isn't limited to one or two employees. I'd like to note that "to go" is a full two syllables shorter. And also way more normal.
   
   
2. Billboards are illegal in Maine. Don't get me wrong, I'm no slave to the advertiser, but... dude, illegal? Not just... regulated, or something? It seems Maine is quite insistent on reminding you that they really are stuck in times past.
   
   
3. New Hampshire's state motto is "Live free or die." While I'm told this is an abbreviated version of Patrick Henry's famous "Give me liberty or give me death," I find it to also be the tackier, more hillbilly version, perhaps because the license plates that bear it are so often attached to cars bearing gun racks & Truck Nuts.
   
   
4. The accents, you guys. OH, GOD, THE ACCENTS. I know I've said it before, but I have a new observation: It seems particularly cruel/questionable that the MBTA named its quick-fare card the CharlieCard, as both of these words exemplify the best/worst (depending on your perspective) of Boston-area accents. Say it out loud. Yeah, I told you so.
   
   
5. I live down the road from a place called Carl's Meat Market. And really, I think this point stands alone.
   
   
6. The art of taxidermy is alive & well here. I swear a full post is coming on the bizarre glory that is the Kittery Trading Post, but for now, this picture should give you a feel for what that post will entail:
   
   
   
7. My Congressional Representative sucks. I was so happy living in BettySuttonLand, a bastion of longtime allegiance to the Democratic party. I could count on the reliably progressive Rep. Sutton to regularly vote in alignment with my decidedly liberal views. But now? Now I get Rep. Frank Guinta, a virulent anti-choicer who supports extending Bush-era tax cuts & the U.S. pulling out on the United Nations. Oh, hey, crazy.
   
   
8. Everyone is a terrible driver. Yes, everyone. But no, not me. Like today: I drove past a parked car whose driver decided to pull out right then but lay on the horn at me for having the audacity to, like, be driving. And then she followed me & gave me the finger for a good 15 seconds. I repeat: Oh, hey, crazy.

I wanted to come up with 10, but these eight feel pretty solid. Plus, I plan to do a "Things That Don't Necessarily Suck About New England" post sometime in the near future, too, & God knows I won't be able to come up with 10 for that one, so I'll keep it fair & balanced. I am the Fox News of blogging, I know.

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Getting Serious About Suburban Living

Getting Serious About Suburban Living

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

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As promised, I got a car. Helloooooo, beautiful 2008 Honda Civic that is not at (as great of a) risk of breaking down mid-highway!


Also, I got a cat. Meet Stringer Bell, originally named George (we can't decide), age 10, adopted from our local SPCA. He likes cuddling, sleeping in bed with me & sneezing in my face; he does not like catnip, responding to our calls or, it seems, eating his food.

Following announcement of my two new acquisitions, my boss sent me a concerned email: "First a car and now a cat? This suburban thing is getting out of hand."

Ain't that the truth! He made me promise I wouldn't "lose [my] edge." I promised, of course, but this cat in my lap seems to have other plans for me.

I also promise not to become one of those simpering, obnoxious pet owners who constantly talks about & posts photos of my cat. Then again, I once promised not to be a douchey, Apple-worshiping iPhone owner who Googles things mid-conversation, either - and just look at me now.

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In Which I Channel Lil Wayne

In Which I Channel Lil Wayne

Monday, January 10, 2011

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The village that borders my hometown is a notorious speed trap. At first, the limit on the main roadway was a paltry 25, which was almost impossible to abide. When I returned from D.C., I was pleased to see it'd been upped to 35.

Tonight, doin' a buck in the latest drop, I got stopped by a ladycop.

OK, that's not entirely true, that's a Lil Wayne lyric. I was only going 45ish, not a buck (which I assume means 100, but I don't speak Weezy). Once I pulled over, I had no idea what to do because I haven't been pulled over since I was 19, in broad daylight on a scenic overpass on my drive home from finals.

My thought process went as follows: Shitshitshit, I can't afford a ticket. I can't even afford gas & groceries! Do I leave the car on? Maybe the officer will think I'm gonna flee the scene. Turn the car off! No, now I look really sketchy, all sitting here in blackness. And what if passersby can't see me & swerve into me & kill me? Also, I'm cold. Turn the car back on! Oh! Do I even have proof of insurance? What does proof of insurance look like?! How do people avoid being ticketed? I should start crying, like, 20 seconds ago.

The cop approached me as I rifled through my glove box, & although seated, I jumped about a foot. From there, the rest of my thought process went as follows: A ladycop?! Shitshitshit, now tears definitely won't work. Wait, wait, wait. Why am I thinking so straight? I dunno about this ladycop's preferences. Maybe tears will work after all!

Alas, I could not muster tears, despite my habit of crying at inopportune times. Now, I guess, I can't cry at opportune times, which just figures. The policewoman proceeded to tell me not that I was driving with reckless abandon but rather that I was driving with my headlights off. I was truly & honestly baffled.

"I was?" I asked dumbly.

"Well," she answered, "They're on now. Did you turn the car off & back on?" And then I had to admit that yes, I did, because I didn't know what to do when I got pulled over, like some teenage first-timer.

"I hadn't really driven for the last three years," I admitted nervously, which I quickly realized sounds like I'd had a suspended license or done time in lock-up or, you know, something Lil Wayne-esque. "I meannn, I lived in a city. I used public transportation. I didn't have a car. You know." Great, I am now rambling like a nervous maniac with a coke habit & maybe a facial tic.

The cop proceeded to show me the difference between my parking lights & my headlights. She let me go without a ticket - just a written warning & a severe loss of dignity.

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