THINGS I LEARNED FROM WATCHING LEVERAGE.
No, really.
I got caught driving in the latest blizzard-- let's just ignore the fact that I would've been home already if I hadn't been out getting my hair cut and colored, shall we?-- and the further south I crawled towards home, the worse the storm developed. General visibility was lousy, and I could barely see the lines on the road surface.
So of course, that's when I get hit with a coughing fit. You know, the kind where you cough so hard you can't catch your breath? The cough-'til-you-puke kind of fit?
Yeah.
Discretion may be the better part of valor, but prudence is what hopefully keeps you from getting killed on the highway, so I pulled over with my flashers on and got out of the car to continue my fit.
Boy, that's a rockin' Friday night, right there. Hanging over a guard rail, coughing until I threw up. YUCK.
When the headlights pulled up behind me, I thought it was just one of those helpful NJDOT trucks that patrols the major highways, assisting stranded motorists ( yep, that's your tax dollars at work, folks! ). It wasn't until the driver exited the car that I realized NO, IT WAS A STATE TROOPER.
I had approximately ten seconds to run through every possible reason I thought I could give for being sick on the side of the road that would NOT end, at the very least, in being given a field sobriety test-- or, worst case scenario? Being hauled off for suspicion of drug use and forcibly subjected to a blood test.
You know, I *get* that the world is a different place now. Officers pretty much have to assume that the people they're stopping to investigate are out to get them. And Route 55 is a known drug corridor-- and given the number of times in the last year that I've had cops and troopers tailing me and running my plates, the 2001 Hyundai Sonata must've recently joined the ranks of "drug-dealer cars to monitor". But it sucks to be out there in a fucking blizzard, knowing that there's a pretty good chance that even though *you're* not a bad guy, they have to treat you like one until you prove otherwise.
Fortunately, I think very, very fast.
When the trooper was about fifteen feet away-- and, I might add, he had his hand hovering over his gun, which again I *get*, but COME ON FOR GOD'S SAKE I LOOK LIKE A LITTLE FIREPLUG AND HE WAS BUILT LIKE JARED PADALECKI-- he called out, "What's going on here?"
Not, "Do you need help?" or even, "Is there a problem here?"
So right there, that tells me a lot.
And I turned my head AND LIED LIKE A RUG and snapped, "I'm *pregnant*!"
Both his hands flew into the air like *I* was the one with the gun, and he said, in a much different tone of voice, "Oh, of course, when my wife was pregnant with our first, it was every night at seven pm like clockwork."
In my head, I swear I heard Sophie Devereaux whispering, "Just let the character sell the con," so I shrieked, "Are you telling me I have FIVE MORE MONTHS OF THIS?"
And the trooper blinked and said hastily, "Let me get you a bottle of water."
So I ended up perched on a guardrail for the next fifteen minutes, slowly drinking some Poland Spring and getting snowed on while a state trooper fussed over me.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell for this.
You know . . . maybe nothing would've happened. Maybe I *could* just have said that I ate something that disagreed with me, or that I had a coughing fit, and everything would've been fine.
But maybe not. Maybe I would've been out there for a half an hour flunking a field sobriety test-- because God knows I can't walk a straight line or balance on one foot when I'm SOBER, which would be why I don't drink AT ALL if I'm going to drive-- and maybe I'd spend another hour down at the station waiting for the Breathalyzer. Meanwhile, where's my car? Oh, yeah-- on the SIDE OF THE HIGHWAY IN A BLIZZARD. Probably getting squashed by a tractor-trailer. And I don't know if the troopers take you *back* to your car afterwards . . . our hometown cops basically used to shrug and say, "Whoops, our bad!" and let you fend for yourself. So, what? I call a freaking TAXI to take me back to my car?
YEAH, RIGHT.
Or maybe it would've been even worse. Maybe someone, somewhere, would've pushed the wrong button or typed the wrong number, and something would've come up saying that I or my car was wanted for something. The trooper who pulled me over was obviously tense and ready for trouble, and I read later that there had been an attack on a cop in our area the week before where a guy used his girlfriend as an attempt to lull the officer into a false sense of security. So, I get it.
Still doesn't mean that I want to exercise my consitutional rights to being questioned and searched in the privacy of a holding cell, you know?
As I struggled home, aside from not crashing the car, all I could think was:
DID I SERIOUSLY JUST GRIFT A STATE TROOPER?
The things you learn from watching Leverage. I TELL YOU.
I'm totally going to hell. *headdesk*
I got caught driving in the latest blizzard-- let's just ignore the fact that I would've been home already if I hadn't been out getting my hair cut and colored, shall we?-- and the further south I crawled towards home, the worse the storm developed. General visibility was lousy, and I could barely see the lines on the road surface.
So of course, that's when I get hit with a coughing fit. You know, the kind where you cough so hard you can't catch your breath? The cough-'til-you-puke kind of fit?
Yeah.
Discretion may be the better part of valor, but prudence is what hopefully keeps you from getting killed on the highway, so I pulled over with my flashers on and got out of the car to continue my fit.
Boy, that's a rockin' Friday night, right there. Hanging over a guard rail, coughing until I threw up. YUCK.
When the headlights pulled up behind me, I thought it was just one of those helpful NJDOT trucks that patrols the major highways, assisting stranded motorists ( yep, that's your tax dollars at work, folks! ). It wasn't until the driver exited the car that I realized NO, IT WAS A STATE TROOPER.
I had approximately ten seconds to run through every possible reason I thought I could give for being sick on the side of the road that would NOT end, at the very least, in being given a field sobriety test-- or, worst case scenario? Being hauled off for suspicion of drug use and forcibly subjected to a blood test.
You know, I *get* that the world is a different place now. Officers pretty much have to assume that the people they're stopping to investigate are out to get them. And Route 55 is a known drug corridor-- and given the number of times in the last year that I've had cops and troopers tailing me and running my plates, the 2001 Hyundai Sonata must've recently joined the ranks of "drug-dealer cars to monitor". But it sucks to be out there in a fucking blizzard, knowing that there's a pretty good chance that even though *you're* not a bad guy, they have to treat you like one until you prove otherwise.
Fortunately, I think very, very fast.
When the trooper was about fifteen feet away-- and, I might add, he had his hand hovering over his gun, which again I *get*, but COME ON FOR GOD'S SAKE I LOOK LIKE A LITTLE FIREPLUG AND HE WAS BUILT LIKE JARED PADALECKI-- he called out, "What's going on here?"
Not, "Do you need help?" or even, "Is there a problem here?"
So right there, that tells me a lot.
And I turned my head AND LIED LIKE A RUG and snapped, "I'm *pregnant*!"
Both his hands flew into the air like *I* was the one with the gun, and he said, in a much different tone of voice, "Oh, of course, when my wife was pregnant with our first, it was every night at seven pm like clockwork."
In my head, I swear I heard Sophie Devereaux whispering, "Just let the character sell the con," so I shrieked, "Are you telling me I have FIVE MORE MONTHS OF THIS?"
And the trooper blinked and said hastily, "Let me get you a bottle of water."
So I ended up perched on a guardrail for the next fifteen minutes, slowly drinking some Poland Spring and getting snowed on while a state trooper fussed over me.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell for this.
You know . . . maybe nothing would've happened. Maybe I *could* just have said that I ate something that disagreed with me, or that I had a coughing fit, and everything would've been fine.
But maybe not. Maybe I would've been out there for a half an hour flunking a field sobriety test-- because God knows I can't walk a straight line or balance on one foot when I'm SOBER, which would be why I don't drink AT ALL if I'm going to drive-- and maybe I'd spend another hour down at the station waiting for the Breathalyzer. Meanwhile, where's my car? Oh, yeah-- on the SIDE OF THE HIGHWAY IN A BLIZZARD. Probably getting squashed by a tractor-trailer. And I don't know if the troopers take you *back* to your car afterwards . . . our hometown cops basically used to shrug and say, "Whoops, our bad!" and let you fend for yourself. So, what? I call a freaking TAXI to take me back to my car?
YEAH, RIGHT.
Or maybe it would've been even worse. Maybe someone, somewhere, would've pushed the wrong button or typed the wrong number, and something would've come up saying that I or my car was wanted for something. The trooper who pulled me over was obviously tense and ready for trouble, and I read later that there had been an attack on a cop in our area the week before where a guy used his girlfriend as an attempt to lull the officer into a false sense of security. So, I get it.
Still doesn't mean that I want to exercise my consitutional rights to being questioned and searched in the privacy of a holding cell, you know?
As I struggled home, aside from not crashing the car, all I could think was:
DID I SERIOUSLY JUST GRIFT A STATE TROOPER?
The things you learn from watching Leverage. I TELL YOU.
I'm totally going to hell. *headdesk*