I’ll have a ticket with that

I get away with a lot regarding my driving.  I’m a non-descript grandma in a non-descript car, nothing flashy, nothing standout.  But, not yesterday morning on the way to work.

A straight through lane has changed recently to a right turn only lane because the right turn only lane next to the curb is under construction.  Construction is like being pregnant.  There’s the first trimester where you just see a few signs and a little bloat, the second trimester where you see something happening but not fast enough, and the third trimester where you’ve had it and you’ll do anything to get out of it.  This torn-up corner was in the third trimester.  I’d had it with merging left in long lines when I wanted to go straight.  The traffic was backed up and there were no cars in the make-shift right turn only lane.  I rationalized I wouldn’t be cutting anyone off, because there was an empty lane straight ahead of me.

The cop saw it differently.  Like the obstetrician that says, “You did the crime, now pay the fine.”

The magnetism between my family and policemen has been long running.  My dad got a ticket every six months whether he needed one or not.  Once my brother Kelly stuck his head out the window and puked on the cop’s shoes.  The cop glanced at his feet.  “Looks like you’ve got worse problems then me,” he said, strolling away faster than he had come.  He let the infraction slide.

My sons inherited my dad’s job of growing his ticket collection.  They’ve had citations for everything you can do wrong while driving — honking at a friend standing on the corner, spraying his window shield but instead soaking the car on the right with a dysfunctional spritzer, and doing a wheelie in a worn-out Volkswagen Vanagon — the only car I’ve ever been able to stand up in.  It was worth it, the ticket recipient told me.  “Mom, it was so cool.  I bounced so high my head touched the ceiling.”

Last week, Hot Wheelz called about the newest ticket to his collection — one for tubing on a river without a life preserver.  CoCo had flown in for a visit.  A sunny hot weekend afternoon spent floating down the scenic Weber River, relaxation interrupted by a hot and cranky uniformed officer beckoning them out of the water.  (I just added ‘hot and cranky’ because that would be my excuse if I were in full-uniform in 100° weather.)  As CoCo floated by the officer, she curled her fingers and timidly waved, while pursing her lips and mouthing, “Whoopsy.”  She sailed by without incident.  Hot Wheelz, on the other hand, got out of the water and, for his obedience, received a $100 fine.  It was his birthday.  I guess it’s hard for a guy to suck it up to say, “Whoopsy.”

Today I pulled over for the booming flashing lights behind me.  I did what my husband said to do.  First, I played dumb.  “What did I do, officer?”  And then politely suggested, “Would you consider giving me a warning?”  Just like my son, I didn’t get out of the citation.  

I haven’t been stopped in forever, so I was pretty shaken, fumbling around for registration and proof of insurance.  My glove box is a collection of its own.  Crumbled papers, old CD’s, out-of-ink pens, half-used rolls of Lifesavers^®, and never-opened instruction manuals.  I lied — I opened it once to find the picture that matched the symbol glaring at me on the dashboard.  I wanted to see how concerned I should be with the little lit-up wrench. 

Well, I found registration from 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, but nothing for 2010.  And according to the records in front of me, my insurance ran out in December of 2007.

The policeman liked me; I could tell.  He didn’t take me straight to jail, but guaranteed I would owe a big wad of cash.  “Have a good rest of the day,” he said cordially.  “No one gets excited to see me.”

“Maybe your wife does,” I said politely and smiled. 

“I take it back,” I wanted to say.  “I’ll bet she doesn’t like you coming up behind her with your red lights flashing either.” But I didn’t.

I reviewed the ticket after he pulled away.  He used the word “disobey”  — what nerve.  But ha, ha on him, I looked at what he’d written down for my weight.  He could have written me up for lying, too.