Not throwing Jack under the bus here, because he is perfect in so many ways, but he inadvertently let the registration lapse on the babe-mobile. Which is a problem when you get pulled over and the police officer says, “License and registration,” and the registration you hand him has expired.
“I’m giving you a ticket, but just send in a copy of the updated registration, and they’ll drop it.”
Cool. Well, not cool. I raged a little, because I have a pristine driving record, but we handled the registration and mailed it in promptly.
And then I received a letter in the mail regarding a court date. A court date? Weren’t they supposed to drop this?
I swap out jeans for a skirt and smooth down my hair with the palms of my hands as I walk into the building. My watch sets off the metal detector, so he makes me walk through it again but “with your arms in the air like you just don’t care.”
I obliged but didn’t do my usual woooooo that comes after that line. There is no woooooo-ing in court.
“Excuse me, where do I go to contest a ticket?” I ask.
“That line.” He points to the line that I was hoping wasn’t the line. At least twenty people deep with a large sign that yelled at me, CRIMINAL MATTERS.
Criminal matters? Seems a little excessive. Could we dial it back a little, maybe?
I stand in line and hear general grumblings from the men in front of me and the men behind me. Of this taking too long, of us inevitably having to wait for them to go on a lunch break, so on and so forth. Yes, I’m the only non-man in line.
“And this girl here looking like she’s dressed for an interview,” mumbles a man about my age, in a leather jacket, and about five spots behind me. I look up at him and smile so very intently that he is forced to smile back.
It’s like a quiet face-off and I look like I’m hoping to kill Batman.
Battle won. You love me now.
I get pretty keyed up about wasting time, so I sit on the bench and scratch down some notes for a meeting later. Finally, the gentleman in front of me is called in; I pack up my stuff and wait to be called.
I give him (him being … well, I actually don’t know his title) my name, and he pulls up a piece of paper.
“Did you get your car registered, Ms. Ciambriello?” (He says it properly, by the way, with a ch sound.)
“I did, and I have documentation for you.”
“Alright, let’s see it.”
Jack is the chaperone on a field trip, so he had to take the babe-mobile, and I took the truck. I pull out my laptop to show him documentation.
“Whoa, whoa whoa. She’s coming in here pulling out a MacBook Air?” an attorney (according to his ID) shouts from nearby.
“You have it all on your computer?” he says, incredulously.
“I’m sort of a millennial. I don’t have a photocopier at home, do you?”
“Hmm. No, I don’t.”
“That sounded a little fresh. Is she getting fresh with you?” same attorney from somewhere behind me challenges.
“Sort of a millennial?”
“Yeah, I think I’m on the cusp.” I start scrolling through documents.
“Ohhhhh!” he says, like I’m on The Price is Right.
“Ohhhhh!” Seriously, I’m practically showing him a hovercraft.
I shut my laptop and put it back in my bag.
“You’re free to go. And you win best presentation of the day.”
I walk away from the CRIMINAL MATTERS line with my record unsullied.
I think this might be one of those situations where she thinks “lol” stands for “lots of love.”