BUSTED, BABY! (sort of)

I'm cruising along, top down (the Jeep top), sun shining, beautiful foothill vistas, birds chirping, the world is fine. I'm listening to pet advice on my Martha Stewart Sirius radio channel. I don't have any pets now, but it's interesting to listen to the callers asking for advice while all the while feeling very glad that I no longer worry about animal hair, feces, rabies, bordatella or vet and kennel expenses. Yes, I know, pets are sometimes lots of fun and good companionship, but let's face it, sometimes they aren't.

I had just completed a successful shopping trip to the Great Indoors, about an hour from my home. My purchases rested on the passenger seat. New vanity lights for my bathroom and a really sweet, brown pendant style light for another part of the bathroom.

Oh yea. Here's something you should know. I guess it's more appropriate to say "vanity" lights instead of "bathroom" lights. I was enlightened regarding this by the genteel, dressed in black sales associate at the store. When I said, "Where are the bathroom light fixtures?", she replied, "The vanity lights are downstairs." It wasn't like I ask her, "Where are the lights that go in the room where the toilet is and where we perform bodily functions and it sometimes smells bad?" It wasn't like I asked her that.

Anyway, here I am cruising along, minding my own business, giving wide berth to bicyclists on the road and like I said, listening to pet advice. Suddenly the hairs on my neck start to quiver. I sense a foreboding presence. Out of the corner of my eye in the rear view mirror, I see it. Flashing lights, red and blue ones attached to a large, white SUV type vehicle. Yikes, what's the speed limit? Oh boy.

One time I saw one of those nature films where things get killed. There was this little baby caribou being chased by a big arctic wolf. When it became apparent that flight was impossible, the little guy just sat down in the cool arctic grass and waited for the inevitable. That's how I felt. I just pulled over, pulled out my license, hunkered down and waited for the inevitable. Pretty pitiful.

I waited a minute, then glanced in the rear view mirror. The ballcap and sunglasses were on the radio, probably checking in with headquarters in case backup was required. Finally I hear the door open and close. I hear footsteps on the gravel. They stop next to me. I look up.

He smiles. He says, "You must be Lannie."
I have custom license plates.
I say, "That would be me. How fast was I going?".
He tells me, but I'm not going to tell you. It wasn't too terrible although I was definitely speeding.
"I'm sorry about that, I was not paying attention." (Probably the most common excuse.)
"I know. You've got the top down and you were just cruising along." He's still smiling, but his teeth are starting to look kind of sharp.
I hand him my license.
"Do you have proof of insurance and registration?"
"Yes I do, " I start to reach over to the big box on the passenger seat so I can move it so I can get in the glove box for my papers.
"That's OK, you don't need to move it. You do have them, right?"
I'd swear on a stack of Bibles, but they're in the glove box with the insurance and registration.
"Yes, I do have them." My head is nodding like a Bobblehead doll.
"I'm only going to give you a warning," he says.
Suddenly his face sort of begins to look angelic.
"Wow," I say. "That's awfully nice of you."
He looks at the words Rubicon on the side of my Jeep.
"I have one too, it's a 2004."
"Really," says I. "This one is a 2003. It's my 3rd Jeep, but my first Rubicon. My husband has a 1998 and it's all built up big. It looks great."
Having gotten past the stressful law and order part, we then chatted for a bit about Jeeps, 4 wheel drive and how many kids he had. Since we had gotten pretty chummy, I proceeded to confess that I was due to be stopped as lately I noticed I'd been kind of not driving as slow as I probably should. It felt good to confess, kind of lifted a weight off of my conscience and gave me a new law abiding sense of resolve.
"I have to go check your license in case you are a terrorist or something."
We laugh.
"Ha. I don't think you have to worry about that."
He leaves, goes back to radio in information on his "perp". It's getting hot sitting in the sun with the Jeep top down, so I turn on the air conditioner and turn up the radio.

When he comes back some time later, he hands me my license and his business card and admonishes me not to speed - he calls me "young lady". I think that maybe this is one of those things they teach them in deputy class. Like, when you stop a middle aged woman, you can certainly make her feel better and defuse any potential violence if you call her "young lady".

It works. I felt better.

When I got home, I went to the Boulder County Sheriff's website. It was pretty darn interesting. Did you know you can listen to police radio from the web? Also, they had some cool little videos of the police dogs finding drugs, climbing ladders and training to attack. I followed different links and ended up at the FBI 10 Most Wanted list. Scary. I see Usama is still on there. (I always thought it was Osama, but I'm sure the FBI doesn't make serious typos like that.) I'm considering trying to find him. The reward is $27 million.

That could buy a whole lot of lights for the potty room.