Sunday, January 2, 2011

Late for Work

Last night, we did a little grocery shopping. I carried the kids up and Jeffrey carried the bags and dipes. He went back for the massive bag of cat food in the trunk.

Today as I was getting ready for work, I realized that I was behind schedule. I needed to hurry up if I was going to make it there on time. Kiss the girls, kiss the husband, grab the keys. I'm in the Kia, waving up to Madelynn as she pounds on the living room window. I turn the key and nothing happens. The trunk light on the dash is blinking. It takes me about 45 seconds to realize what is happening. Jeffrey didn't close the trunk the whole way when he was getting the cat food last night, the light in the trunk stayed on, the battery drained. Curses. I ran back up the three flights to get the keys to the Blazer.

Short background on the Blazer, it took a shit a couple weeks before Christmas. All I know is the back end is bad and it will only drive in four wheel drive. I've only driven that massive hunk of metal once, it was for about three miles and that was back when it wasn't broken. I didn't care for it then, so you can imagine how I felt about it now. Until we can fix it, Jeffrey has been taking the Kia to work and the Blazer has just been sitting. Until today.

So anyway, I'm sitting in the Blazer and I'm running late. I can't figure out how to move the seat up, and I really don't have time to go back upstairs to ask Jeffrey. I'm barely over five feet tall and I have to pretty much lay down in this sucker just to stretch my leg far enough to reach the gas pedal. The radio only has one volume, super fucking loud, you can't turn it down or up or even off as far as I can tell. I can't imagine what I must look like, small girl laying in a big truck, jammin' out to Baby Got Back and veering to the right. Did I mention the Blazer pulls to the right?

I made it halfway to work before I saw the flashing lights in the rear view mirror. The fact that I saw them at all is truly a miracle, it's not like I was in any position to be using my mirrors correctly. While I'm waiting for the officer, I'm desperately trying to figure out what I did wrong. I wasn't speeding, I was wearing a seat belt, I wasn't swerving although I may have over corrected a few times when the truck tried to take me into a guard rail... The officer comes to my window and tells me that my registration is expired, hence the traffic stop. I'm cursing Jeffrey, registrations are his job. He renewed the Kia so I assumed that he had done the Blazer as well. The cop asks me to turn the radio down. "I'm sorry sir, I can't turn the radio down."

This isn't funny, so don't laugh.

The officer and I are screaming to each other over Willow Smith's new song. It never once occurs to me that I should just remove the key from the vehicle, and apparently, the cop doesn't think of this either. "Can you reach the pedals, ma'am?" I got this far didn't I? He wants my insurance card. Now this is something I can handle. Everyone knows that everyone keeps their insurance card in the glove box. I'm looking for the glove box, but the dash in front of the passenger seat is solid, there's no handle. Maybe the glove box is under the radio... but it's not. Maybe the glove box is under the driver's side dash... or not. "I'm sorry sir, I can't find the glove box." And this is when I really start to worry that I'm going to jail.

The cop goes back to his car and I continue to search for the glove box. Seriously, there has to be one. I'm pounding on the passenger dash when he returns. "The handle is on the top, ma'am." And it is on the top. The dash kind of curls at the top and the handle is behind that curve. And you know what really pisses me off? He knew it was there the whole time. I open the glove box and hand him the insurance card. You know, the one that expired in July? Fuck. I yank open the center console and there's a really important looking paper in there, so I shove it through the window at the officer. "Ma'am, why would you keep your title in your car? If someone steals it, they have the title, which means they have a new car." And I'm thinking, pfft, they can have it. I'm trying to explain that this isn't my car, so I'm really not familiar with it. He can totally understand that, right? "If this isn't your car, why is your name on the title, registration and insurance?" Well shit. I guess technically it is my car, I've just never driven it before.

I'm laying there, listening to Willow Smith whip her hair back and forth, and I just don't know what to say. After all of this, how can I possibly convince this guy that I am intelligent enough to operate a motor vehicle? "Could you please ask me for my license because I totally have that."

"Ma'am, you already gave me your license."

I have until Tuesday to show proof of registration... and I was late for work.

**I am fully aware that this is my fault. I drove a broken-down, illegal truck on public roads and I have learned my lesson.

***Edit to add: When I got home, I asked Jeffrey where he keeps the insurance card. It was in the center console the entire time... right under the title.


SHAWNY said...

I love Willow Smith as your music background. This sounds like a start of a very bad day.

Joann said...

I am sorry to say that this story practically had tears running down my face with laughter. I SO needed this today! As my husband would say to me, I wasn't laughing AT you, I was laughing WITH you!

On another note, I LOVE your blog and your children and just absolutely BEAUTIFUL! Please keep it up!