Got my exercise on, had some tasty pasta from Whole Paycheck before going to the track to lead a kick@$$ Tarametrics session at practice, and got home late to have a delicious salad with some pinot noir.
Dinner was interrupted by a frantic call from the Dear Husband. He was out in Santa Monica with his social group, the Drunk Scouts. His bicycle got stolen from the bar where the Drunk Scouts usually congregate. Dammit.
Luckily I hadn't had much of the pinot, so I grabbed my purse and ran out the door, still in my stinky track clothes, to pick up the DH.
On the way, I rolled through a 3-way intersection that has a new stop sign. Guess who got pulled over for running the stop sign?
ARGHGHHFHGHFHGHGHFHGHHGHFHGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I thought about explaining the picking-up-the-DH situation, but I figured that being quiet and polite would work better so that I could just get the hell outta there. The cops take my license, go back to their squad car, and I sit.
And sit.
And sit.
Then they come back, one on each side of my car, flipping their flashlights around the interior of said car, and ask me if,
a)this is my car, and
b)am I carrying a gun?
WTF?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?
I just about jumped out of my skin, and images of being arrested, hauled off to jail with accompanying body cavity searches raced through my brain.
The cops then explained that a record of me having some sort of involvement with the county sheriff's department came up on my license. Ohhhhhhhhhhhh! BIG sigh of relief as I explained that my parents work for the sheriff's office.
Luckily that satisfied the cops, and they retreated. I sit some more, and surreptitiously text the DH about my situation. SH!T! he texts back.
Indeed.
The rest of the traffic stop goes by with no further, uh, interesting aspects, and I'm soon on my way. I find the DH, pick him up, and we're on our way home.
He's obviously p!ssed about his stolen bike, but he angrily asked me if I told the cops about the situation to try to get out of the ticket. Since I was driving at the time, I couldn't give him the Glare of Death, but I assured him that had I thought it would've worked, I would've tried it. He wisely picks up on the tone of my voice and drops the subject.
So now we're out a bicycle and probably a Good Driver Discount. I haven't had a ticket of any sort for a few years, so I should be good to go for Traffic School and a hefty fine. Go, me!
Cans I hibernate now?
Oh, here's a flier for a uniform fundraiser my team is having on Sunday, Sept. 14. Go, will you?
2 comments:
I won't be making it to the fundraiser, but you damn well know I'll put in for team uniforms. Let me know who or where to send a contribution.
Can't let my team skate in rags now can I? ;)
Oh and about the other stuff, fuck. Traffic school will work. No points will show after so insurance shouldn't even know it happened. It will cost more than just paying the ticket though. Rat bastards.
We thought about skating in the upcoming game in flesh-colored unitards and merkins.
Thankfully that idea was shot down for a variety of reasons!
I think the point person for moolah is our cappie, Myna Threat.
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