Last Thursday, as I went about my business, ticking things off in my head in the usual fashion:
Kids up? Check. Lunches? Check. Ryandon'tforgetyourglasses? Check. 1st group on time? Check. Cut the clay for class taught later that day? Check. Deliver clay? Check. Nolan won't be late? Check. Speeding ticket? Check.
What's that last one?
Yes. Speeding ticket.
I was driving Nolan and a friend of his to school, and as I turned down one of my shortcut streets, I saw that a large truck-trailer was pulled over, off to the side. As I could see down the road that there was another officer, on a motorcycle, facing our direction, I thought, I should slow down, what's the limit here, anyway? I didn't see a sign but decided 40 should be a good guess--5 over if it's 35, 5 under if it's 45, not a bad bet, don't you think?
It's not a bad bet.
If it's a 45 zone.
As I drove past the officer, I got a little paranoid, so I looked in my rear view mirror.
And I saw lights.
Initially, I thought, 'Surely, they aren't after me??' but something about the steadfastness of his jaw made me pull over.
I didn't even do that right, as he asked me to pull forward a little more when he approached me the first time.
Great. Now Nolan will be late. "If this takes long, and you're late to school, I'll go in and let them know it's my fault."
I quickly considered my options. The "It's a new car, I didn't notice I was speeding, it's so much smoother than my other car was" argument. "I didn't see a posted speed limit sign. How to work the "you're doing a great job, just like my husband does everyday" angle. Lip gloss and cleavage --would only serve as window dressing for my mug shot. I found myself remembering every excuse Mr W has told me he's heard, and I couldn't bring myself to be that lame.
"Do you know what the posted speed limit is in this area?" he asked.
"It's 25 and the laser got you at 45." Damn! Construction zone!! I inwardly groan as Nolan stifles a giggle. I knew what was coming next, so I handed over my license, and pulled the insurance out of the glove box...but couldn't find the registration. "I'll be right back," he said, giving me time to look for it. I was mentally cursing Mr W because I remembered seeing the registration on the counter, but couldn't remember where it went after that, and of course, it's absence in the car at that point was his fault.
Nolan spotted it, wedged upright, in the back of the glove box. It was in a black sleeve, and the sleeve's back was facing out--so to me, at my vantage point, it just looked like the back of the box.
My minor panic had nothing to do with my missing it.
When the officer returned, I handed him the registration. He went through his spiel, and I had to smile at how familiar that part was; I could almost hear it in Mr W's voice.
It sounds so much better when you're not the one being handed the ticket.
To his credit, the officer was not a butt, he was quite courteous, and the whole thing took less than ten minutes.
To my credit, I wasn't coy, I didn't flirt with him, I didn't cry, or name drop...I signed where I was supposed to sign and was on my way, a little embarassed but none worse for the wear. I wasn't thrilled (two words: driving school), but I figured at the very least, I set a good example for Nolan and his friend.
A ticket in the Mom-mobile.
I think it's safe to say the van has been christened.