WTF - But Officer!!

WTF - But Officer!

As many of you dear readers know, I moved to a very small town (total of 350 full time residents during off seasons) and no, it was not to avoid federal custody capture, but to slow down when it came to life.

Well, that didn't work.

Just ask the nice police officer who pulled me over this morning.

Right in the middle of the parkway, where all 349 people can see my white mini cooper with the blue lights flashing behind it.

Did I mention I received 10 text messages from friends within 5 minutes of getting pulled.
"Oh Kel got hit by the PoPo!"
"Do you need bail money?"
"What did you do now?"
"I heard there are a lot of cute girls in jail nowadays."
"Show him your boobs."

I love my friends.

So I thought about possibly showing my boobs to get out of the ticket, but the only people interested in those now a days is National Geographic.

The officer walks up to my car, I fluff my hair, turn off the radio (because I am respectful, "I like big butts" shouldn't be playing while I negotiate with the officer) commence looking for the necessary items (license - not fishing but driving - registration)

"Good morning Ma'am, do you know how fast you were going?"  Why do they always ask you that? Of course not, because I'd hit the brakes as soon as I saw your cop car because I knew I was speeding.

"Uh no, I'm sorry. I was running late to a workout class." I'm thinking, that's probably the lamest excuse from a sober person he's ever heard.

"35 MPH in a 25 MPH zone, and you went left of the line."

"Well shit, that fast?" I did hit the brakes when I saw him, how could I still be going that fast? Then I realize cussing probably is not going to help my case, maybe I should go down the boob road. But how do you get a sports bra off gracefully? Not a chance in hell.

***Of course, I'm thinking there's no one else out here, all the 349 people are either still in bed or off the mountain.

"I'm going to go run your plates." Why does this make me nervous? I'm not in Fast and Furious (well maybe in the speed department) My car is up to date, why does that line make me feel like an outlaw?

So what do I do? I snapchat a few pictures back to my friends saying:
"Cute cop, may have to show the boobs.
"Will orange look good on me?"
"Can you bring me your license, he doesn't believe the age on mine."

He comes walking back with a pad, well crap.

"I'm going to write you a warning today. I'd hate to hit a deer going that fast in your car."

A warning? I slowly lower my shirt. How did I get so lucky. I text my friends a picture of the warning.

"He said I was nice and polite and only gave me a warning," I text my friends.

"Obviously you didn't show him your boobs." One replied.

Thanks a lot.

Brace Yourself for the Airport Ticket Agent

He sat on his throne looking like King Midas, or Genghis Khan.  No I am not talking about royalty, I am talking about the ticket agent at the airport, or the customer service representative at the mall, any person who believes they are in a position of authority due to their job description.  In my case, this ticket agent at the airport was the seat keeper, the keeper of the first class seats that I was coveting.

And he understood the power he had, and he yielded it.

He looked up at me, then back to his computer screen.  Obviously something on that screen was much more important than customer service?  Rather than saying something immediately, I waited patiently, hoping this gesture of good will, this showing how important I thought he was by not interrupted what seemed to be a very important computer something.  After waiting several minutes, I finally couldn’t stand it anymore so I coughed and said, “Excuse me?”

He looked up at me through his glasses perched on his nose, a stern look on his face at being interrupted at his IMPORTANT job.  I was not mentioning that I noticed his fingers not moving on the keyboard for quite a bit of time.  

“What can I do for you,” he asked in a nasally voice, emphasizing DO and YOU.

I almost said, “YOUR JOB,” but bit my tongue.  “They told me that I should check with you about seats available for 1^st class on the flight from Charlotte to Phoenix?”

He looked at me, acting like I’d said, “Sir, can you please take that umbrella in the corner and stick it up your ass.”  There was another long pause as we stared at each other, like playing some kind of game of war.  Who was going to blink first.  I felt like I had won, when he simply stopped staring looking down to his keyboard and started to type.

While I watched him type, a line started forming behind me as other people were hoping to find lost bags, or change seats, or get rebooked after a cancelled flight.  I felt the stress of holding everyone up, especially the woman behind me with a baby in her arms, a baby that took one look at me and started crying.  I started sweating, partially because of the baby crying behind me, but also because I noticed that he boarding passes put her and Napoleon there right next to me on the 4 hour 37 minute flight.

My eyes went back to the agent, who was not noticing Napoleon starting to scream, or me sweating, he was very intently typing on the keyboard, looking at the screen as if he were typing up the long lost scroll of the bible.

I waited while Belzebub’s screaming got louder.  Watching him on the keyboard.

What is he typing?  Why is it taking him so long to just check a flight for seats in first class?  He’s still typing, is the system

broken.  When he paused typing, I felt a moment of exhilaration, only to have my hopes dashed as he then went back to typing again.

I wanted him to look up at me, so I could silently communicate with him with my eyes.  I wanted to say, “It can’t take you that damn long to check if a seat is available.”  Then I would add with more glaring potential, “I need to know if I am seated next to spawn of Satan for the next flight so I can go slam down a few martinis and make the flight tolerable.”  But he wouldn’t look up, so I couldn’t communicate anything.

I thought he found his answer because he clearly stopped typing on the keyboard.  When I thought he would give me an answer, he went from typing on the keyboard to clicking with the mouse.  He clicked as much as he typed.  He just kept clicking shit making me wonder if he was contacting the Chairman of USAirways for confirmation of my upgrade to first class.  He just kept clicking while I just kept waiting.

“How’s it coming along,” I asked when I couldn’t stand the Exorcist playing out behind me.  I hoped he would understand my question, see all my eye gestures and understand the communication.

“The computer is running a little slow,” he said as he stared at the screen mesmerized.

No shit, probably all that typing and clicking overloaded the system and now you have to wait, which means I have to wait, praying Linda Blair behind me doesn’t puke on my clean shirt.  My eye communication changed from give me an answer to looking like Oliver Twist, big sad eyes saying, “Please sir, could you spare one first class seat.”

He typed for a few more minutes, I was planning on bribing the flight attendant to slip me a few miniatures of whiskey for the flight when he says, “Looks like you are in luck.”

The heavens opened, I heard angels singing, and Spawn of Satan behind me smiled for a minute before resuming his crying.  I walk like Gene Kelley in Singing In The Rain to my gate whistling a bright tune.

That’s when I realize he’s upgraded me on the wrong leg of my flight, I was already in first class for that one.

I hear a wail in the distance.