I'm an honorary member of Las Cruces.

I know it's been forever since I've written anything. I guess I got busy. Or maybe I was having a patch of good luck. Well, let me tell you - that shit is over. I'm back on the bad bus to hell, which I know some of you will appreciate. The hardest part is deciding which incident takes precedence.

Let's start with my hoopty, as Anne (remember, my sister) calls it now. I may have mentioned before that I drive a yellow FJ Cruiser because of my undying love for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Well, it was yellow up until a couple weeks ago, before it got spray painted and keyed by some total asshole loser. Here are a couple pics so you can feel my pain.

And here's how it happened.

About 5 years ago I bought a rowhouse in DC. Yes, it's sandwiched between two houses. And yes, the walls are kind of old and thin. Oh, yeah, you can hear stuff pretty well too ... people stomping up and down the stairs, doors slamming, beds creaking, bass pumping. Let's just say things didn't improve much for me when my single neighbor moved to Potomac and rented her house out to a group of college kids. Seriously, it's a residential neighborhood and you're renting to a bunch of ne'er do wells? I know some of you can relate and how lame you think it is, too.

So, a few weeks ago these lovely neighbors of mine decide to have a party. 12:15. At night. I drag my ass out of bed around 1, open the door and ask the hoard of partiers on their front porch to please turn down the music. A glassy-eyed girl replies, "uh. Sure. yeah. ok."

Didn't fill me with a lot of confidence that my message would ever reach anyone near a volume dial.

1:30. Repeat performance. Ignored.

2. Fuming. 2:30. 3. 3:30. I try everything. Ear plugs. Headphones. Changing bedrooms. Ringing my friend (luckily she didn't answer or she would have beat my ass). Some probably wonder why I didn't call the fuzz, but talk about opening a can of torture worms. They'd probably start having round the clock dance party USA.

Anyway. From that point on this paranoia grew inside me that with every approaching weekend I was going to be subjected to midnight vibrations - and not of the good kind.

A couple weeks pass, then I hear a commotion, and it's a 'party commotion' - the kind where people run around, clean up, strategically place speakers, pop weenies in the oven. I call my friend that I had rung up during the previous blowout because it was only 9 or so and she said to come over and sleep at her place. Awesome. They could live it up all night and it wouldn't make a shit of a difference to me because I wouldn't be there. HA HA.

I park in front of my friend's house, go in, we drink wine and catch up, hit the sack around midnight. Sleep like the dead. Sneak out around 7:30 since I'm a demented early riser. See a couple hoodlums walking towards me on the sidewalk so I walk into the street to get to the driver's side of my car. Get in, drive home, park, go in and go back to bed. Ahh. Home. Good. Merlie. Cuddly.

Noon. Gotta' go to the fish store to pick up some stuff (yeah, some of my fish are actually still alive). Head over to the passenger door for whatever reason and stop dead in my tracks. A big ol' LC is painted in black and it's not even nice writing for Chrissake. Then I notice the scratches. Looks like a rabid cat was unleashed on some catnip pasted to my door. The key marks don't go in a straight line, either. They go up and down and down to the metal and over and zig-zag and just all kinds of f*cked up. I was probably in a state of shock because I calmly walked around the car, got in and drove to the fish store.

Now, one might think that this is the shittiest thing ever, but once I found out that LC stands for Las Cruces - a smallish DC gang - I figured I could have some fun with it. I secretly hoped they weren't rivals with MS-13 or something because it could have turned into a paint war on my whip. Anyway. I called my insurance company, scheduled the appointment for the estimate, did all that time consuming garbage.

Then I had about a week or so before I had to take it to Toyota so I pumped up the bass on my stereo as loud as it would go and drove through some of the crappiest neighborhoods in DC. Of course I didn't have to go too far away from my house... It was hilarious. I was turning heads left and right and when they saw some shrimpie white girl at the wheel, the look of surprise made all the vandalism worth it. No one in their right mind would have messed with me anyway, since I was now an honorary member of the LC.

I now have my hoopty back and it looks all new and shiny and yellow again. At least they didn't bust out my windows. And I even hung out with my neighbors this past Sunday. They introduced me to a hookah pipe. It was like smoking raisins, but pretty tasty. They also said they'd give me a couple days' notice before their next shindig, and when they do I'm gonna drive straight back to my same friend's house to stay the night. See what other kind of gang critters initiate me and my FJ.

Day 47. Vomit.

I was in 7th grade and we were living in England. Yeah, the place that spelled trouble. Sometimes my sister Anne and I would hang out at the NCO club on base. They had good pizza and great video games. Maybe we went there for the music, too. As you can probably tell by now, my memory gets fuzzy on some of these stories. Anyway. We liked it there. It felt homey and the cooks used to make us laugh.

One day Anne, "Bullet" and I trekked into a nearby field to down some Mad Dog 20/20. (His nickname was Bullet because he had a shaved head in the shape of a bullet. Hey, we didn't come up with it.) I think we also had a bottle of 151. All I know is there was liquid. A lot of it. And I had no problem guzzling it down, trying to act all pro and shit.

A little while later, we all stumbled out, swerving and unsteady on our feet. I was probably a hideous shade of green. Or several. As Anne and I passed the front of the NCO club, we could see our chef friends through the massive window. Then, suddenly, I hurled. Big time. Right in front of everyone. I drank like a pro but held it down like anything but. 

Turns out, the next day my dad is walking with Anne past the front of the NCO club. 

With a quick sidestep he says, "Ew! Someone had too much fun last night!"

Um. Little did he know it was his youngest daughter, hammered from a drinking fest in the middle of a field of weeds and chiggers.

Another good ralphing story happened to me and my sister. We were living in the creepy mansion in Emsworth, PA. One of the prerequisites to us getting a cat is that we had to take care of it. Litter. Accidents. Water. Throw up. My parents weren't going to have any of it, which was fine with us. We tried to walk the damn thing outside once and it backed right out of its leash and took off into the woods. Jesus, a dog may have been easier than that cat.

His name was Wimpy. Because he was a wimp. He was gray and white, pretty cute. Pretty shy. One day my dad came downstairs and said, "hey, the cat threw up on your bed, Anne. Better go clean it up."

I've never seen someone's face go white faster. I was kind of excited about it, but she was horrified so I had to act horrified, too. We crept up the stairs together, like the puke was going to hurl itself off her bed, out the bedroom door and onto our faces. Anne was so worked up she was crying. More like sobbing. Especially when she got a look at the barf.

"I'm not touching that!" She screamed. (Even decades later she can barely touch raw meat).

"Then you're going to have to sleep on it!" said my dad. "We told you girls that cat is your responsibility."

"I'll clean it up if you give me a clothespin for my nose." I offered.

Anne sobbed in the background.

"I want gloves, too. And a plastic bag." Making demands is easy when you're the one who's doing the dirty work.

I got outfitted and pumped myself up to grab the barf off the bed. I sneaked up on it, got my face close to it, reached out and tried to pick some up. And you know what happened? It came up in one solid piece.

"What the hell!!" I shouted, as I flung the vomit across the room. Anne screamed as we watched it land on the rug, still in the same shape as pre-fling.

We sneaked up on it again.

"He must have barfed a long time ago, dad. It's all dried up and in a big, solid chunk." I explained. Anne was still beside herself in tears.

I tried picking it up again and then I knew something was up.

"Dad!! This barf isn't even real! It's plastic!"

Then all hell broke loose. My dad fell into a fit of laughter, Anne cried harder and I just got pissed. Probably because Anne was so upset. I seriously thought she was going to puke herself. She may have dry heaved a few times both during and after 'the procedure.' Those were the kinds of things my dad really got a kick out of. Teasing. Scaring. Tickling. It was all in good fun, at least until the day he almost drove the whole family off a cliff.

Day 42. Skeeters and Beetles.

Poquoson, VA. Summer. Hot. I was in third grade. Kids could still play outside without getting kidnapped. My parents loved having us out of their hair, so "go out and play" was something Anne and I were used to hearing. A lot.

One day I jumped on my bike to cruise around and meet up with friends. We tooled around for hours until it started getting dark, which was always the signal to head home for dinner.

Now, I don't know about you, but I'm a mosquito magnet. I walk out in the morning to water the flowers and walk back in the house with bites all over me. I go out at dusk to water the flowers and walk back in the house with bites all over me. Even when I spray myself down from head to toe, a few always find their way to my lower back, under my shirt, through my pants, under my pants. Then, once the biting's done, humongous welts appear and I look like a freak. It's a losing battle I'll never be able to win until I become a girl in a bubble.

Anyway. I was hauling ass on my bike and both sides of the street had huge ditches. I don't remember it being a place prone to flooding, so I don't know why they were there. But they were.

I felt a little stick to my leg. Then my arm. Another. One more. Multiple. I pedaled faster. I saw the bloodsuckers sticking their stingers in me. My legs looked polka dotted. My arms looked small pocked. I started swatting. One hand on the handle bars, SLAP! Swerve. Furrowed brow. SLAP! Stop looking at road. Never saw mosquitoes that big. Screamed. Tassels flying (on bike, not me). Bike a pink blur. THWACK!

Suddenly, my bike was on a death path. I was headed right for the ditch, but I was so determined to kill as many mosquitoes as I could, I didn't stop the bike. I went straight down the steep side of the ditch, getting completely twisted in the metal and spokes of my bike. I was a wreck. Sweating, panting, scratched up, afraid my parents were going to be pissed for my reckless behavior. And then I realized I was still blanketed with those goddamn insects.

I hopped on my barely working bike and started pumping the pedals like a competitor in the Tour de France. I know I cried, partly out of humiliation and partly out of frustration. At least my parents just felt sorry for me when I got home. Maybe it was the grass, welts, mud and blood smears all over my body.

For the next week people thought I had a deadly mixture of chicken pox, measles and elephantitus of various body parts. I thought no way could another insect encounter ever rival this one. Then I met the beetles.

South Carolina. I was a junior in high school. My parents always stayed up until Anne and I got home, no matter what time it was. Well, my mom did. Dad usually hit the sack and slept well, even through our arrival home.

One night I was out with my boyfriend and supposed to be home already. Who knows what we were doing, probably making out somewhere or goofing around with friends. I was maybe an hour late and only the outside light was on in the front of the house.

"Cool," I thought. "For once no one's waiting up for me. I can sneak in and sneak right into bed without getting busted."

I pulled back the latch on the car door, got out and closed it behind me. It was masterful. Nearly inaudible. Then, I started tiptoeing toward the front door. The closer I got, the more bewildered my facial expression became. What the hell was all over the screen door? Brown. A little shiny. A lot of them. Wait, is that flying? What the ....

They were beetles. Tons of them all over the screen door because of the outside light. I stopped dead in my tracks. Should I make a run for it and plow right through them? Sneak up as quietly as possible to avoid disturbing them?

I chose the latter. I kept tiptoeing until I reached the door. I was so grossed out I almost threw up, but I reached for the latch anyway. It was my only way in. I had no other options.

CLICK!

As I pushed in the button, a really loud CLICK reverberated through the entire door. All at once every single beetle took flight and went straight for my long, curly hair. Well, just as you'd expect any other girl to react, I screamed bloody murder at the top of my lungs. I ran all over the front yard with my head bent over and my hands shaking out my hair. Beetles flew all around and crawled all over me. My mom shot out of the house and started swatting at them, half hitting me for being late. It was a scene, especially for some of our nosier neighbors.

If I was going to stay out past my curfew in the future, I'd have to come up with a much better plan ... So I measured my body to see if it would fit out my bedroom window.

Day 41. The Log.

I was in 1st grade and we were living in Quantico, VA. Another base house. Brick on the outside. Nothing fancy inside. I remember the dirt was like red clay, there were woods, old appliances, hardwood floors. 


One day my sister dared me to go into the living room, spin around in circles and say, "fuck" over and over and over again. As I mentioned in a previous entry, dare me to do something and it's a given that I'm going there. So I march out, stand in the middle of the living room, and spin in circles while saying "fuck" repeatedly for my audience. One person. My dad. Anne thought it was the funniest thing that ever happened. Ever. But I didn't. Especially when I saw the look on his face. Both of us were in deep trouble, and that was the day I learned that fuck was a bad word.


Maybe my dad was just fed up, because shortly after that incident, I, Anne, and a bunch of friends went woods exploring and came upon a fallen tree that stretched all the way across a steep, wide ravine. It looked like a bridge, but without any guard rails and a lot less safe. So, what better to do than get in a line and cross it one by one? None of us was brave enough to start walking over, so it was gonna' be a scoot to get to the other side. Seemed easy enough. 


One at a time I watched people bravely go in front of me. I wasn't about to say anything, but I was scared out of my wits to get on that log. I've always been incredibly afraid of heights, so there's no way this was helping. But I didn't want to get made fun of, so I scooted on. Last. And everyone was dry humping their way easily to the other side. Scoot. Scoot. Scoot. Don't look down. Scoot. Scoot. Then, I hit a huge bump in the log that required serious leapfrogging if I was going to clear it. What if I overdid it and went over the side of the log? If I fell, would I die? 


Everyone, safely on the other side now, cheered me on - telling me I could do it, I could do it. What did they know? They weren't inside my frozen body on the middle of that log. I couldn't go forward and I certainly couldn't go backwards. I was screwed. I started to cry. I was completely helpless and yelled to Anne to go get dad. 


"GO ... GET ... DAD!!" I screeched like a mad howler monkey. 


She took off like a bat outta' hell, running for my ultimate rescue. 


I waited. I cried. I waited. I was frozen. And who shows up? Not my knight in shining armor. My mom. My 105 pound, 5'2" mom. How in the hell was I going to fall off that log into my mother's arms? I would have flattened her like a potato latke. Only one person deserved to be injured by stupidity and that was me. But my mom wouldn't have it. She totally freaked out, and before I could say, "stop! Don't!" She dry humped her little self out onto that log to get me. I thought, "whew. Rescue on the way. Finally going to get off this thing."


And then she got stuck right behind me. She was too scared to catapult over that bump in the log, too. Not me - the actual bump in the log in front of me. At least someone knew where I was coming from. If I remember correctly, my mom might have started crying, too... Maybe it was over her poor decision to follow that of her daughter's poor decision. 


Again, Anne ran back to get my dad. Our knight in shining armor. But she came back empty handed.


"Dad says you got yourselves into this mess, so you can get yourselves out of it." 


There was also a good football game on, I think. 


I was horrified. Mom was pissed. Dad always liked to tease and make fun, but he obviously had no idea how serious the situation had become or his butt would have been out of that house in an instant. I could actually feel the heated anger radiating off my mom's chest into my back, which kind of soothed my panic a little. 


"WELL, GO GET THE NEIGHBOR!!" Mom screamed, ruining my few seconds of peace. 


Anne was off like a shot once again, running for our rescue. 


This time she came back with a neighbor. A guy. I have no idea what his name was, but he saved us that day. First, he coaxed my mom into taking a leap of faith off the log, and he caught her. She was safe. Next, they both shouted to me to do the same. 


"Uh uh!! No!!" I clung to the log like it was a life preserver in a violent sea. I just sat there. I couldn't move. Even if I wanted to fling myself off, I couldn't. 


"Well, we're just going to have to leave you here then. It's going to be dark soon and you'll be all alone out here in the woods. Stuck on a log. Unable to see. Do you really think you can sleep on tha-----"


THWOOOOOMP! 


I fell off, right into his fleshy arms. I was safe.


My dad, on the other hand, wasn't. I never told my mom, but I hope she punished him severely as only a wife can.


Even to this day, decades later (what a scary thing to say), we still give him a hard time when we think back on it. Had he had it to do all over again, though, he still would do the exact same thing he did that day. He let us fend for ourselves, but I bet somewhere within he was sweatin'.

Day 39. Failure.

My parents came up for a visit this past weekend and my mom reminded me of a story I blocked for good reason. So, instead of moving on to Fishtastrophe Part 2 I'll tell you this one. 

The only time I was behind the wheel of a car, prior to student driving, was once with my dad. I sat on his lap in a 1970 tank of a Volvo and he let me skid and veer all over a dirt road. If I was going to hit anything it would have been a tree or a cactus. Not anything that would maim either one of us unless it came through the windshield. For the life of me I couldn't keep that wheel straight. I whipped the wheel right. I whipped it left. "Small movements! Small movements!" he screamed, but I was having too much fun, laughing a maniacal giggle.

When it was time for me to learn to drive for real, my mom did what any sane mom would do. She signed me up for driving lessons with an instructor. No immediate family would be present. Just an old man with a jerry rigged car that had a brake on both the drivers and passengers (are those supposed to have apostrophes?) side of the car. Huh. Who knew they could make something like that? 

The first couple times out went off without a hitch. I think. I don't really remember those times in comparison to the one time....

I was working at a tax place as a receptionist and was headed there with my instructor after our lesson. I guess I got a little confused between the gas pedal and brake pedal because when I pulled into the parking spot in front of the place I gunned it. The car lurched forward in a great spurt of energy and then smashed right into a Coke machine. Yeah, I shattered it good. Didn't do much damage to the car, but that's probably because someone in the passenger seat hit the correct pedal. 

Somehow that guy was willing to continue teaching me how to drive. He must have dealt with far worse drivers if I couldn't even scare him off with a direct vending machine hit. 

I failed my first driving test. It was either the driving or the written part or both, but I failed. Talk about embarrassing.

My second try was even worse. I passed the written part and nearly all the driving. Then we pulled into the police parking lot, where the parallel parking poles dared me to try to squeeze between them. I pulled up, put the car in reverse, started backing up and thought, "oh yeah, I got this in the bag!" But I forgot to also look in front of me to see where the ... KKKKKRRRRRUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHH

I basically skewered the car with the front parallel parking pole, causing $800 in damage. I was still driving my instructor's car, too. I felt awful, but he still didn't dump me. Must have been the maximum insurance coverage he had. I can think of no other reason than he probably found it entertaining on some level.

I was really feeling like shit then. I figured my parents were going to have to drive me around for the rest of my life. How awkward would that be?

Just so happened that third time was a charm. My pits were like geysers, I was flushed and shaking, but I passed both the written and driving tests. Yeah, me! Finally. It only took my instructor's sanity, more than $1000 in damages, several months, and my utter humiliation to reach my goal. But at least my parents never had to be behind the wheel with me. Even today, my mom holds onto the oh shit bar like she'd fall thousands of feet without it. Mom has always known best.

Day 35. Fishtastrope Part 1.

My fish guy told me to be patient. He knows me pretty well, but not well enough. 


Like all stories, I guess it's best if I start at the beginning. Those of you with a saltwater tank will feel my pain. Those without will probably never get one after I tell you my story. And those considering one will go for it if they have the balls that I do. 


March 2010. I'd always wanted a fish tank and during an evaluation of my life and what I wanted but never got, I decided now was the time. I have no husband, no kids, I don't have time for a dog, and I certainly didn't want more cat hair in the house since the Beast basically equals 2 really big cats. I'm not trying to paint a bleak picture, just stating the facts. 


I dragged a friend of mine with me to one of the best aquarium places around. About $1000 later I was hooked up like nobody's business. 55 gallon tank with all the goodies. One of the store workers was going to come over to hook it up in a couple days. I was ecstatic. My first two fish were green chromis. I had them for such a short period of time I didn't even get a picture. I don't think I named them, either. 


I didn't know it at the time, but the first fish you put in a saltwater tank are sacrificing themselves to get the PH right in the water. It's all about bacteria, PH, ammonia, all kinds of stuff I had no idea about and am still learning 6 months later. Poor little guys. They huffed and puffed and gave it all they had until I found their little bodies lying stiff on the sand floor.


My next two were damsels. I got a zebra and a yellowtail. If they were going to die I figured it was only appropriate to give them dead names. Zed, and I honestly can't remember the name I gave the yellowtail. Probably because she didn't live long. Here's a little picture of them. 

They were super cute until I saw Zed breathing his last breath in a plant and the blue one started getting spots all over it. My fish man at the time was kind of a dolt. He jerry rigged my UV sterilizer, put sand in the bottom of the tank, which I guess is a bad idea, put salt in not for a 55 gallon, but more like a 10 ... It was one thing after another with this fool, but at the time I had no one else so I felt kinda' stuck. 


While the blue one was still alive I got another zebra and a domino damsel. I named them Zed 2 and Fats. Then, the blue one was removed and probably killed back at the store, so I added another damsel - a neon that I named Captain Quint. He had a vertical stripe down the middle of his body and Captain Quint got bit in half in Jaws, so what could be more perfect? Zed 2 didn't make it very long, so Fats and Quint became quick buddies. It looked like the tank death was over. At least for the cycling part of it. 


I waited a few weeks before I got more fish, which my new fish guy would be particularly proud of. And I got them at a new store. A customer at the old one tipped me off to a place that was closer to my house and had better, cheaper fish. I picked up 2 clowns and a royal gramma and named them Mama Cass, Denny and Flo. (Remember, Mama Cass choked and died on a ham sandwich?) Denny was her boyfriend and Flo was named after my grandmom, a very cool lady. Here's a picture for you:

They were swimming around pretty well, not necessarily getting along with the damsels, but at least everyone was alive. When a couple weeks went by and still no one was dead, I went back to the store and got 3 pajama cardinals. Rizzo, Marty Maraschino, and Frenchie. They looked like this:

I couldn't believe nothing had happened yet.


Yet.


I went a step further. I ordered a flame angelfish, a puffer, a yellow tang and 7 chromis from a place on the internet. They came in the mail, just like pants, and I brought them to their new home. They did great. I acclimated them and despite being harassed by Fats, everyone seemed happy and healthy. I named them Norman Bates, Puff Daddy, Sophie Fatale and the 7 dwarves. Who could tell between 7 fish, seriously. 

I should have known things were too good to be true when Sophie got a brown stripe down the middle of her yellow body...

To be continued.

Day 34. Pigs.

Pre-pig note: become a follower! If it doesn't work in IE try Firefox or Safari.

I was staying at a killer house in Duck, NC about 4 years ago when I saw it for the first time. It was true love. A bright yellow FJ Cruiser. White top. Black trim. Retro looking. Best of all, the yellow was Pittsburgh Steelers yellow. To a tee. When I got home I immediately took my Honda and traded it in. One of the best decisions I've made in the automotive world. But when I bought it and started carting my friends around, one said, "you know, yellow cars get the most tickets." Whatever. I didn't care. It was mine. I call it "The Bee" and it makes me smile every single morning when I get in it, no matter how foul my mood is. 

Prior to getting the Bee, I didn't have very many run-ins with the cops. I ran a red light in high school and had had a couple beers, but luckily the cop was cool. I was on a date when the guy driving got pulled and tested for DUI. The cop made me drive home, but that was the extent of it. And then, I got the Bee. Release the pork!

I don't even know how many points I have left on my license. I was driving my sister to my dad's art show - he handcrafts beautiful Windsor chairs - and of course I got us lost. I have no sense of direction. Never have. Never will. So, in an effort to get there on time I started hauling ass. I was going 78 in a 55. It was too late when I saw the pig on the side of the road with the speed gun, and here comes the cop car and siren. I said to my sister, "please let it be a guy. Puh-leeeeze let it be a guy."

I pull over, look in the rearview mirror and not who - but what gets out of the car? A friggin' woman. Red hair. Bright red fingernails. 100% trailer trash (sorry, it's true). She wasn't even a real cop, she was a Sheriff. HAHAHAH. I guess she was real enough to give me a ticket, though. I tried everything to get out of it, telling her we were going to miss my dad's art show, apologizing, telling her I was lost. She didn't give two shits. I was slapped with a $250 fine and I just mailed in a check. Otherwise I would have had to drive all the way back down there to go to Deliverance court. No thanks. 

I was on my way home from work one night and came to a three-way stop sign. I stopped, got a little confused, then took a left. Woop woop woop woop, went the siren. I pull over. Cop with serious attitude comes to my window. 

"You just cut me off back there, ma'am. License and registration."

"Wait a second, let me get this straight - you're pulling me over because it was your TURN!?"

"Yes, that's right. I also need to see your insurance card."

"I don't have my insurance card. Who the hell carries that?"

"You do know it's a $500 fine to not have it in the car, don't you?"

I was losing my patience. There was also another cop leaning into my passenger window, which was totally obnoxious. 

"If I did, don't you think I'd have it on me? Whatever. I want to get home, so hurry up and give me the ticket you're going to give me anyway." (Asshole)

"Stay right here. I'm going to run your information."

Yeah, like where else am I going to go? Not like you can take off on a crowded city street in rush hour traffic. Tool. 

Guy comes back. Hands me the ticket. $150. I say, "thanks for nothing" and drive off.

Normally I don't have that kind of attitude towards officers of the law (a term that should be used loosely with most of them), but this particular day I'd had it. I got a ticket because of some guy having a small penis. He probably got abused in high school - made fun of, never got girls, was just a dork for his entire life and is now taking it out on all of humanity. 

I paid that ticket, too. Who has time to go to court? 

I was driving up to a stoplight and needed to take a left. No one was coming, so I started to turn. Suddenly, a pig comes flying down the street way too fast and out of nowhere, so I step on the gas and make the left to get out of his way. Woop woop woop woop, sounds the siren. "Dammit!! Not again!!" And the worst thing was, I had to pee like a Russian racehorse. Was I going to have to just go right there in the Bee? Horrifying! 

He comes up to the window. 

"Ma'am, do you know why I pulled you over?"

"Um, no - to say hello?"

"License and registration, please. You cut me off back there. It was my turn to go." 

Seriously!? Was this the same guy in disguise? No. Just another pathetic loser that had to ticket me to feel better. 

Just then, one of my friends says, "hey, are you still there?" on my Iphone speakerphone. Which was in my hand down by the parking brake.

"Oh, and you're on the phone too, huh? You know that's against the law in DC."

"No it's not, since when?"

"It's been in effect now for about a year, ma'am."

"Whatever. Look, I need to pee. Can you just write up the ticket while I run in that Indian restaurant? Otherwise I'm going to pee the Bee and that's not going to happen."

"Oh, sure, OK." And he looked kind of funny and uncomfortable. 

I got back and he handed me a ticket for $100. "You can take this to court and win since this is your first offense, you know."

"If I can win, then why are you giving me the ticket in the first place? I don't have time for that crap, and I don't have any more time to talk to you. I have to get to work. Is that all?"

And I was on my less-than-merry way. Who do these guys think they are? We have to drive 25 miles an hour, which is totally ridiculous, and they haul ass going at least 50. Get on the highway and they'll pull you for going over 55, but they can go 90 whenever they want. Not all of them are crooked, but in my opinion I think the majority of them are. You know they get huge boners busting people for traffic violations. 

Oh, get this. Yesterday I'm driving to work and there's a pig in front of me. I'm dancing behind the wheel, trying to improve my mood with some hip hop, when I see that my inspection sticker is expired. September 02, 2010. Jesus Pete! I was going to tear off to the right and make a run for it, but I was at a red light, so if I went around him he'd pull me and say it was "his turn." So I just sat there. Sitting duck. But this time, I got away with it. He eventually turned off without realizing the Bee was expired. 

And you know what else pisses me off? Speed cameras. One day I went to get paint at Benjamin Moore and about 10 days later I got a couple pieces of mail from the DMV. I got busted by a speed trap camera on my way there AND on the way home. Same camera. There's my picture, the back of my head, hauling ass to get some Pistachio Mint eggshell paint. I paid both of those tickets without contest, too. 

You might say, "you have no one to blame but yourself for driving that way in the first place." Maybe so, but I drive decisively. Knock on wood, but I've never had an accident. I may be aggressive, but I act fast and stay away from weirdos on the road. 

Cops should focus on unsolved murders. Rapes. Burglaries. Assaults. Kidnappings. Missing children. Domestic abuse. Drug abuse. Instead, they're all busying themselves ticketing me for cutting them off. No wonder things are so screwed up.

I have to go to the grocery store. Hopefully I can make it there and back without getting busted.