The first time was because I started to get off at an exit and then realized it wasn’t, in fact, my exit, so I pulled a lane switcharoo that apparently wasn’t safe.
“What do you call that?” the cop asked.
Honesty is supposed to be the best policy, so I said, “I call that… ‘Not my Exit’” and then smiled and gave him a single, deliberate nod. It worked; he scolded me a bit, but let me go. That little incident inspired a line for my comedy act:
“I admit I’m a shitty driver. Thank God I never get in accidents… but I hear them happening behind me.”The next two times happened about a month apart. I was stopped each time because my registration sticker had expired. Actually my car was registered, I just forgot to put the little sticker on the plate and so both times they let me go. I know... you’d think that after the first time, I would have just put the damn sticker on, but I kept forgetting.
The second registration sticker cop pulled me over right in front of my apartment complex and that guy had a bit of an attitude. In his defense, I think he might have been following me with his lights on for miles and I just didn’t notice and that’s why he was a little exasperated. Now I point the rearview mirror out the back window, not at myself, which makes it a little more difficult to check my lipstick while I drive. Yeah, I know.
The last time I got pulled over was a few weeks ago (I think by the same cop). Traffic on the highway was all backed up and my exit was right there, and okay, I admit I kind of crossed some lines from the on ramp merging onto the highway, but what the hell? I got into my exit lane prematurely—that’s it. It’s not like I was speeding or ran a red light.
This time I got a ticket I was pissed! I so wanted to ask, "Evidently all the child molesters are in jail? All the cold case files have been solved? That's why you cops are free to pursue crappy drivers like me?" But for once in my life I kept my mouth shut.
So I’m telling my mother about getting pulled over yet again in my beloved 13-year-old Saturn with a dent on the roof. And what does she say? What kind of support does she offer?
Mom: “I bet the cop was surprised you could speak English.”So now I have to go to court in May. The ticket says I must appear—I can’t just mail it in—and the cop said it would probably cost me about $200. Great. Now I have to find something to wear; I have no cute court outfits.
Looks like I’ll be taking another trip to Ross. I'd better take the side streets.