Driving Under the Influence

This past July (oh lordy that was a lifetime ago) I was issued a traffic ticket, my first in about twenty years. When I saw the lights flashing in my review mirror it scared me because I didn’t have a clue what I had done wrong. I was driving at the speed limit on a street I had driven down almost every day for the last sixteen years. I pulled over and waited for the deputy sheriff to lean down and speak to me. She was a plump blonde woman, very young very polite and to the point, “Do you know why I pulled you over, ma’am?”
“Um…actually I don’t have a clue.”
“You failed to stop at that stop sign”
that’s impossible! I have stopped at that stop sign for sixteen years, sheesh there’s a school up one street and the community pool up the other, I could mow down a kid if I didn’t stop!
“Really?!”
“Did you stop at the stop sign?”
I know I looked at her like she had two heads because I thought it was a silly question. “Well…if you didn’t see me stop then I suppose I didn’t stop.” I’m very distracted today; a week ago my fourteen year old had his wisdom teeth out and he’s still in a lot of pain and feels like crap; my stupid ex husband and his nasty wife kicked my nineteen year old out; and he just announced his ship date was moved up and he leaves for Georgia in about six weeks rather than in twelve weeks. Did I mention my job really sucks right now?
“Do you have your proof of insurance?” well f*ck me runnin’, no I don’t have my proof of insurance, and it’s at home on my kitchen table. Let’s see if I can remember the big ass speech I gave my son about always always always ALWAYS have your proof of insurance in the car because just this minute I need to hear it!
“I’m not sure, can I look for it?” The very polite officer allowed me to toss my car looking for my proof of insurance and alas and alack the only one I found was a year old even after I did everything but tear out the carpet and rip open the seats.
“Ma’am this is a year old.”
“I know” I sighed, “Can we call my insurance agent, and you can confirm I’m insured?”
“No, but you can go to court on this date and then you can prove you have insurance. And thank you for not lying to me.”
thank you for not lying to you? Are you high? Why the hell would I lie to a sheriff’s deputy? People lie to you? People blatantly run stop signs and do illegal maneuvers and then lie about it? Are they high? Dude, you have so much power in that little notebook that the last thing I’m going to do is lie to you. (Obviously, I’m not one of these people who cries or acts stupid to get out of tickets.)

So yesterday morning I had my day in court, it was the first day of autumn, snow on the mountains, errant flakes driven by a damp cold wind hitting my face as I walked into the court house. I gulped when I saw my name was the first on the arraignment list. I was being arraigned . Damn, when I saw I was being arraigned I felt like I should have brought F. Lee Bailey’s protégé or something for this serious business. I checked in with a clerk who looked--I swear this is not an exaggeration-- eerily like Della Street’s older sister. There were only five of us to be arraigned that day and the other four were my children’s age. I was the only matron jailbird in the bunch. Della Street gave us a copy of our rights and I was immediately fascinated I could plead guilty by reason of insanity, for a moving violation! Awesome! I wonder if anyone has ever done that. I imagined the look on the judge’s face when I told him I ran the stop sign because I was insane. “Ok, Your Honor, I wasn’t actually insane, insane. Have you ever had teenagers? I mean those people are enough to drive you OVER THE EDGE! And I was at the edge of the brink that day with the Ward and Alexis Asshat Show much less dealing with two teenaged boys. You know it’s just amazing I didn’t wreck the car. . .“ Ummmm probably not a good idea to plead insanity. I could also plead “no contest” because this wasn’t really a moving violation because I rolled through the stop sign. I know I rolled through it because if I had driven through that tight corner I would have toppled the Mitz onto it‘s right side. You can‘t take a corner like that at 30 in one of those things without terrible repercussions. No Contest seemed like the better option because Reason by Insanity could also mean a 72 hour M1 hold, and my State Nursing Board frowns on nurses having M1 holds on their medical records. Besides, they might decide to keep me and the mental health option on my health insurance is probably the most craptastic in the industry (aside from Medicaid which is next to nothing but I’ve already beaten that dead horse with a few sticks). My final option was the least amusing but the most sound: just plead guilty, pay the fine and eat the insurance points for failure to stop at a stop sign. I quietly tallied how much money I had and said good bye to the new shoes and jeans I wanted as I listened to the names being called and people were ushered into a room to discuss their cases with an associate DA who looked fresh out of law school and probably had visions of being Mayor or God or something. After they had their little face to faces with Doogie Houser Esq, they quietly walked into the courtroom, tails between legs. I was really nervous about all of this failiing to have insurance is a really serious offense(OMG as it should be!) and if proof isn't valid, too bad. One of my co-workers--a hot 40ish blonde MILF type, told me this would be a piece of cake, just show up and they will dismiss the ticket, she had done it a few times over the years. Well, yeah of course it was thrown out, look at you! was my response. Oh no, she insisted, that county’s DA is really easy-going. When it was finally my turn and I followed him into a little office trying to look law abiding and NOT my usual bitchy MO.

“So Ms Cleaver, you failed to stop at a stop sign, is this true?”
“Yes it is.” rolled, I rolled through the intersection, an intersection I have pointedly stopped at for years. . .
“And you didn’t have proof of insurance. Did you have insurance on this date?” He looks at me like he wants to give me the chair because I had left my effin’ insurance card on the kitchen table.
“Sir, I’ve had auto insurance since I was sixteen” I pushed the card over to him.
“It appears you did have insurance.”
yay! He can read!,
“How is your driving record?”
“Oh you clever boy, I know you have my driving record resting in your hand. What kind of idiot would sit opposite you and lie. This is another chance to be caught in a lie and then you send me into the court room to get scolded by a judge. I know this game, sonny. ( I wonder what he would have done if I had said: Let‘s see, over the past ten years I have been issued fourteen DUI‘s; one night I was going 120 and when they finally caught me I was given a speeding ticket; I ran over a small child; and I’m wanted in California for a minor little road rage incident involving a hand gun and a fist fight.
“I haven’t had a ticket since about 1987”
“How are your points?” He leans towards me and glares when he asks me this. I thought any minute he was going to hand me a phone so I can hear Beav pleading with me to tell the truth so they won’t kill him. I’m thinking Doogie's nanny let him watch too many LA Law episodes on Lifetime television when he was 12 and I’ve watched too many conspiracy flicks on TNT.
“I don’t think I have any points on my license.”
“That’s correct, Ms. Cleaver, you don’t!” So now he is morphing into Monty Hall. I can hear the DING DING DING and applause in the background, pretty purple, green and red lights are flashing because I’ve just picked door number two and I get a new washer/dryer, a year’s supply of Rice-a-Roni and a Dismissal!
“I’m dismissing this.”
“So I don’t have to pay a fine for the moving violation and I’m not getting any points?” I’m feeling paranoid, this was way too easy. He didn’t really dismiss it and next week there will be a warrant out for my arrest.
“Just be a better driver!” He said peering down at me like I’m NOT old enough to be his mother.
Be a better driver? Look you little bug, I taught my oldest son to drive and I’m teaching the other one to drive. . .don’t tell me to be a better driver…if you want to be all bad ass why don’t you get a real lawyer’s job. . .

“Thank you, sir I will.”

So it was dismissed I didn’t have to plead insane or no contest or even sit in the courtroom. I can buy new jeans! And shoes!

Life is sweet sometimes, innit?

Ahh The Brisk Smell Of Pencil Shavings

(TVland.com gave me the picture. Isn't it creepy how the Cleaver boys resemble my kids? Thankfully, my Wally doesn't have a creepy spray on tan and my Theodore is about a foot and a half taller)

I was chided yesterday for almost making Beav late to school. "Mom, we need to leave earlier because I didn't get to class until just before the last bell." I hope I didn't give him the WTF look I was feeling at that moment because that would have been rude. So I asked myself for about the 5000th time: who is this child? And where did this genetic drive to achieve come from? Not me, because all I want to do is hang out and sort of let life happen to me; and we all know it didn't come from his slacktastic asshat father! Somewhere across town there is a couple who are...I don't know...lets say they are a heart surgeon and a judge...wringing their hands and hanging their heads in frustration because their child is not like them: over achieving, motivated and an academic star. This kid across town has the Rasta-man approach to life. "When da' boat comes mahn, theen I do mah homework, don sweat it mahn, I get it done." I just hope the hospital doesn't realize their mistake. Even though this go round with high school is a big gear change for me; (picture slowly backing up and suddenly slamming the car into drive while jamming the gas pedal to the floor) it's not a bad feeling to have a kid who wants to be in his seat and ready for class when the final bell rings because his brother (and his mother)were thrilled if they were sliding into their seat as the final bell sounded. The Beav even had homework the first week of school! Wally didn't have homework until the last three or four weeks of the semester when he realized he was in danger of failing and decided it was time to do the work his teachers would assign all those last minute projects because that's how those teachers roll. (sure they do, honey. Everyone wants to grade a twenty page project the last day grades are due!) Do I really look that stupid? Do these pants make me look that stupid? Because my kids think I'm as dumb as a rock. I suppose I am as dumb as a small rock because when Beav announced he was doing homework last Wednesday, I was a little bitched up and commented: "You have homework on the second day of school? Isn't that a bit much? Your brother never had homework during the first week of school!" The look of utter disgust with the accompanying eye roll was almost warranted in this case. His brother--God love him, I know I do--wasn't an honor student. Even if he had worked really really REALLY hard he wouldn't have been an honor student. So he didn't bother to work at all and then suddenly in the home stretch he would make an effort and end up with a C. It. Drove. Me. Out. Of. My. Mind.

So now I guess I have to act like an Honor Student's mother. I'll need to practice saying things like: "full ride" and "financial package" and "Vida" and "admissions essay" and "loans" and "dorm assignments". I'll also need to work on my sniff and sympathetic smile after I breathlessly and thoughtlessly ask after Snively or Bratleigh (the IEP kids) when I'm quietly told Snively hates school and Bratleigh can't wait to start community college. What I won't do is make a judgemental remark about their parenting abilities or the effects of divorce on young children to our other friends when Snively and Bratleigh's mother is out of earshot. (Does high school ever really end?)

My only other experience parenting a high schooler was being the mother of a kid who had yearly IEP (Individual Educational Plan) conferences. What hell this was for Wally. One teacher, a guidance counselor, the psychologist and his parents gathered around a table to tell him the fourteen ways he was a great kid and the fourteen ways he sucked. No wonder he hated high school. He was the kid in the separate classrooms just down the hall from the big classrooms and he did horribly in them because he hated it so much. All he wanted to do was blend in with the rest of the kids. Of course this is what he wanted and it was completely appropriate. Only after he was mainstreamed in an honors history class (the honors part was a misplacement) did he excel. The teacher adored him and let him stay in the class and Wally even earned an A. You would have thought the kid brought home a letter announcing he was a Rhodes Scholar. I wept over that grade. Not because it was an A but because of what it meant to Wally's self esteem. Wally learned at a young age what it's like to work hard for something and fall just short. Wally also knows what it's like to work hard for something and succeed. This is what gives Wally his heart. The Beav on the other hand, is sort of set up to be a dilettante. He can do school with his eyes shut and his hands tied behind his back. This sort of ease doesn't teach the lesson of what it means to throw yourself into something mind/body/soul. If he decides he doesn't want to attend one of the academies and settles for a state college it will be because he doesn't want to make the supreme effort. But if he really wants to go to one of the military academies, it will be necessary for him to actually apply himself and not just do the bare minimium for an A but the extra steps it takes to make an A+. Even though he is rocket scientist smart he is not Einstein/Oppenheimer smart. You see, Beav made the mistake of confessing to me he didn't really work as hard as he could in middle school and now I know his dirty little secret and I have an excuse to ride his ass.

In some ways, It's back to school for me, too. After next Monday, Wally becomes a maggoty maggot on the shoe of a big mean drill sergeant and Beav returns to Alexis' show house, I will have two glorious full days of absolutely no commuting, no meal prep, no driving to Parkour or cross country or patient care or supervising anything besides my own projects. My writing project has taken a life of it's own and I was given a flash or insight via a dream Sunday night so I begged to take call Monday for the explicit purpose of writing. (I didn't tell them this) This absolute drive to write something down that minute is a new sensation. (my wish was granted, I was at home on call and I worked on the hot mess of a novel and my efforst were fabulous if I do say so myself) I get all bliss-out just thinking about next Tuesday and Wednesday.

When I was a wife and living in the Fabulous House In The Suburbs, one of the neighbors was renowned for having a gathering on the first day of school. Cocktails commenced at 0900. The idea of such a party amused me (cocktails at 0900 repulsed me). But I'm such a pragmatist and in many ways so close to my roots of Quaker farmer; I always "celebrated" by doing chores I had been putting off all summer and sorting out the boys' clothes. This year wasn't any different. I cleaned out Beav's closet and sorted clothing.

Yee Haw, Party on June!

Warrior Princess, Smorrior Princess. I'm just a mama protecting her youngin's

Long-standing myths are on the verge of mutating. Stories that have remained fixed for years are about to acquire unexpected wrinkles. The effects may be pretty spectacular. I suspect it'll be the equivalent of Sleeping Beauty waking up from her long sleep without the help of the prince's kiss, or like Little Red Riding Hood devouring the wolf instead of vice versa. There's something you can do, Pisces, to ensure that the new versions of the old tales are more empowering than the originals: For the foreseeable future, take on the demeanor and spirit of a noble warrior with high integrity and a fluid sense of humor.

This was my horoscope for last week. Warrior, yes; high integrity and a sense of humor was an epic fail. But it’s a place to start. Always the good thing about the bottom: you can move up. And see the stars and yadda yadda twelve step yadda.

The Beav had his wisdom teeth out last week and was a trooper about it. Wally was deployed from Alexis’ house to my house this weekend, against his will. I guess this will prepare him for the US Army to make decisions for him. Hopefully, he will accept them with more grace. Not that he has a stellar role model for that.

At least, I don’t have to continuing stuffing down how I feel about Alexis Carrington. What I was waiting to say after The Beav graduated from high school just sort of puked out of my mouth and into her ear. After she started to cry, she accused me of being: “mean”? Mean? Are we twelve or fifty here? The more apt verb would be “done”. I'm not being "mean". I'm coming from my unhappy "done" place.

But I started the week “done”. I resigned from doing charge nursing. If I didn’t have a child to finish raising I would have resigned from nursing. Too many never events in one single shift.

But my week hasn’t been without noble warrior moments.

One of my “noble warrior” moments last week was not calling security when the screaming family room physically threatened a doctor because I knew she was (a) crazy and (b) grieving. My second moment was allowing another family see my profound grief while I was at the bedside and shared the news their 48 year old sister--a vibrant, previously healthy, biologist--may never return from her vegetative state.

I owned to Alexis a few hours after my tirade of how thoughtless and self-centered she behaves, that believe it or not, I have an inkling of an idea the balance it would take to be a step parent. I also know it would never be for me. I don’t have the stones for it.

It took courage, telling Ward how Alexis has negatively affected our sons. I’ve been afraid to do this because, frankly, I’m worried about repercussions on them. It was tough to tell him things she has said to them and done to them over the years; things I’ve witnessed; the broken promises; The Beav's fear about being the kid left at Alexis' now Wally is living with me; how sincerely devastated I am to see the man he has become; so alien to the man I once loved. But then, I’m not the woman he fell for either. I’m not the nodding and bobbing “yes girl” who thinks he is an expert in everything and always right about all that is wrong with me. Tap dancing as fast as I can to make sure I change to fit into his specific mold for me because obviously what he thinks I should do and be is absolutely The Right Thing. When Ward married Alexis, he gave her a ring and his spine. I wish I could grow extra spine and gift part of it to him.

It takes a lot of grace to be a noble warrior. My reservoir of grace was temporarily empty but I can feel it slowly starting to fill again.

(I borrowed my girl Xena from boxoffice.com. She's fierce in that ep!. . .)