One More Thing...

And just because I'm procrastinating on all the things I have to do today that don't involve shopping (I got all that done before 10am), I have to put this story on here because I find my dearest SO to be hilarious. Even though he drives me kinda nuts sometimes.

So, Joel is outdoorsman, handyman, and all around hard worker. This results in every piece of his clothing being ripped and stained and somehow tainting everything in the laundry with the smell of gasoline. He has more clothes than any fashionable semi-hoarder woman, and I don't help because I'm always trying to buy him "something nice to wear" just in case.

Several months back, we were in Nashville, and it was super hot and he needed shorts (in general, but especially that day). So he dropped me off at the mall, and I rationalized buying him a $60 pair of shorts because I could use my $20 off coupon and purchase several things for myself making the extreme price completely justified.

The very next time he wore said $60 shorts, he unexpectedly had to go to the farm and work. I showed up to the farm later that night only to find these ridiculously expense shorts covered in dirt and various crap that will definitely not wash out. (I think he said some of it was battery grease or something like that that I didn't even know existed.) Minutes after making a huge deal about him getting his brand new shorts all stained up, I notice he has ripped the entire back of the shorts out! So even if I could dry clean the stains out, he can never wear them again because the shorts are suddenly ass-less. Although I b*tched about this for a while and still bring it up randomly, I did get over it.

Not even kidding.

On my trip to Evansville, though, I found an amazing pair of white Express pants for like $25. We have a wedding to go to in a couple of weeks, and I thought those white pants would be perfect for him to wear. When I was showing him all the fruits of my shopping labor, I held the pants up and said slowly and firmly, "These. Are. White. Pants. Do. Not. Under. Any. Circumstances. Wear. Them. To. The. FARM."

Him: Baby, c'mon. Why would I do something like that?

Me: I know I said I wouldn't bring it up again, but remember the pair of shorts I bought you that you RUINED at the farm???

Him: That's totally different. Those were already dirt-colored.

There you have it, folks. That's exactly how his mind works. And I couldn't even get mad about it, because I was laughing too hard. He is hilarious. And a mess.

She's Got a Ticket to Ride

So, so familiar

Confession: I have more speeding tickets than I care to speak of. (I, however, will.) I have more speeding tickets than you. And I have more speeding tickets than I should probably be joking about. I added to my long list of offenses yesterday en route to work.

I have already mentioned that I had a hugely busy day of work yesterday, and add to that the fact that I had a brand new set of clothes to choose from whilst getting ready for work. (This has been a common theme for me lately. Being late because of outfit choices. I am forever searching for something that fits to wear to work. Note to self: stop buying swim suits. You cannot wear those to work.) So I get on the road five minutes late and have to stop and get gas (again, a common theme in my life). I decide I can make up a little bit of time on the road and commence with my usual ignoring of the speed limit. A mere ten minutes on the road, and a sweet little state trouper is informing me that not only was I speeding, but also that I was going 77 in a 55. And, please note, that I have some cases of adult beverage in my back seat for the lake trip. Awesome. He was sweet enough to write me a ticket for 68 in a 55, so as not to have to haul my ass to jail. Thank you, Officer Hawk Eye.

So, here's my history of speeding tickets. I hear about people "getting out" of them all the time, but I simply never acquired that skill. (I'm shocked too. I'm a hot, young thang and can usually talk myself into or out of anything.) The first ticket I ever received was when I was returning to Lexington after my first visit home from college. My roomies in tow, I figured we'd see just how quickly we could make it back. When the officer stopped me to give me a ticket, I remained stoic and never looked him in the eye (I can't explain that), and then the second he drove away, I burst into tears and refuse to speak for the next three hours. And, my theory is, that since I blew my first shot at "getting out" of it, I will never, ever be able to do that. But I was determined to try.

Why, thank you for pointing out how dangerous it is to speed. I had no idea.

A year later, I was headed home from Lexington, when a cop pulled me over for going 81 in a 65 on the Bluegrass Parkway. When he came to the window, I put on my best, "I'm going to explode" face and told him that the only reason I was speeding is because I was about to pee my pants (I am being completely serious, I said that to him). He said he'd make it quick, and I responded, "I'm really sorry, sir, it's about to come out right now!" He instructs me to follow him, turns his lights on, and leads me (in the opposite direction) to the exit I'd just passed and to a gas station. I run in and stand in the bathroom for what seemed like an adequate amount of time (if you know me, you know I have a reservoir bladder and only pee about two times a day). So strolled back out to the parking lot thinking I'd really pulled one over on this guy, only to see him standing next to my car, speeding ticket in hand. Thanks, asshole.

The next time I was pulled over was while on Frederica Street in Owensboro. I had absolutely no good reason to be speeding, but I was going 50 in a 35 in lunch-time traffic. This cop pulled me over to ask why I was doing just that. This is how that went:

Me: Sir, it's an emergency. I was on the phone with my mom, who has back problems, and she told me to come home right now, and then my phone died. I'm scared she has fallen and hurt herself.

Copper: I understand, what's your address, and I'll get an ambulance there immediately.

Me: Oh, you're not gonna wanna do that, sir, I'm lying.

Copper: That's what I thought. I'll be right back with your ticket.

Oh, that's how you do it!!

After that, I realized lying was not always the best policy, so I've learned to politely give the men in uniform my license, note that I'm wearing my seat belt, and say thank you when they--always--give me my ticket. I am becoming quite popular among the police in Kentucky, as I have been pulled over by the same cop three times (in a row, within about two months), there was a stretch of about five years when I went to traffic school once a year, and because I'm primarily responsible for paying their salaries with the fines I remit. Part of me wants to sit down and add up how much I--or Pete Clark, sorry, Daddy--have spent on speeding tickets in the last twelve years, but I'm afraid I'd throw up and vow never to drive again. For now, I'm going to at least try to slow down and lighten my lead foot just a little. That is, until the next time I'm five minutes late to work...