They Tryin’ To Catch Me Ridin’ Dirty, Y’all

On my drive home from another pleasant yet uneventful day at my enjoyable yet unchallenging job, I was lost in a meditative state as I regarded the petulant sky, speckled gray and blue like the gloomiest of robin’s eggs.

I was chomping on a jawful of wintergreen and nodding along to Buttons when I glanced in my rearview. Jeez, I thought with a supreme eye roll, that a-hole behind me needs to back up off Mama’s ass.

Said a-hole clung to my bumper like a groupie on JT’s leather-clad elbow down my remaining few miles of highway and off onto my exit. As we sat silently at a stoplight (Buttons still popping), I inspected this character in my mirror.

Hmmm, that’s a lot of antennas, I thought. Lots of doodads on the console, too. And is that … a laptop on the dash? Hey, why is he putting on a wide-brimmed chapeau resembling a police hat?

That’s right. I got pulled over on an uber-active thoroughfare during downtown rush hour traffic. I’m the luckiest girl in the world!

As Officer Friendly sauntered up to my car, I decided to put my best foot forward. I turned down Buttons (much to my chagrin) and stuck my head out of my open window, trilling “Hi!” at him like a deranged songbird. Judging by his noticeable flinch, he’s not much of a chatter.

We exchanged pleasantries – well, mostly just “License and registration, please,” but you could tell he TOTALLY got me. “Sure,” I all but squealed, still intent on charming my way out of a ticket. I snapped open my wallet and retrieved my license with a photo taken so long ago that it features my fetching, Charlize-Theron-in-Mighty-Joe-Young hairdo that in no way resembles my current Shakira-in-her-Whenever, Wherever-days look.

I leaned down and pulled open the glovebox to obtain my registration, and wonder of wonders, a tampon rolls out.

Well, this is going swimmingly.

I handed over the paper, careful not to make eye contact with the tampon. Then the officer asked innocently, “So, which address is correct – the one on your license or the one on your registration?” I read out my current address with an impatient wave of my hand, not remembering which item is more up-to-date. “That address isn’t on either of these, ma’am.”

Oh, effing swell.

He retreated to his car to write my ticket as I sat wallowing in my inability to be cute and charming enough to weasel out of a well-deserved ticket. I watched as half of the city’s government workers rolled past me, rubbernecking to get a look at my criminal mug. The only thing that would have made it even more mortifying is if A) an ex-boyfriend, B) my boss, or C) my crazy, drunken ex-friend from college would have driven by, honked, and thrown a milkshake at me.

He came back, ticket in hand (sans handcuffs, though, so bully for me), reporting that the reason for my citation was that I had failed to renew my license plates when they expired two months prior. One can only assume my reminder for this was sent to my old address. Oops. I resisted the urge to thwack my palm into my forehead, as I’ve gotten busted for this little blunder before.

I leave you with this moral message: Always alert the damn DMV when you move, kids. Oh, and don’t try to sweet talk an unresponsive cop unless you’re really, REALLY cute. Or Paris Hilton.