Sunday, May 2, 2010

Yes Officer, You May See Her Drivers Licence...

My wife has taken extreme measures to make sure that we are not profiled by police officers due to the new and controversial immigration guidelines in Arizona.

The problem is that we don't live in Arizona. Also, you should know that she is as blond as a polar bear in a snowstorm wearing a blond ski parka. At noon. On Blond Day.

I myself, if I were to be so politically incorrect as to compare my epidermis to an actual color, would have to pick Lightest Blue - as in I-think-this-is-a-vein, Doctor blue.

My children fall somewhere in the middle of Blonde and Lightest Blue except for Myelda, my eldest daughter, who is often the color of a fried orange due to what I feel is both excessive and compulsive tanning. Apparently she thinks Lightest Blue with a lightly breaded fried chicken completion is something to be sought after.

My wives latest police-avoiding ploy involves applying a commemorative badge celebrating handicapped & retired officers of the law to the back window just above the license plate. I think it is a good ploy.

Scenario; Gentle Police Officer sees moss-green van speeding or swerving unnaturally or taking undue license with established vehicular guidelines. Officer Fluffy puts down his donut and peruses said rolling moss ball. He approaches the van from far enough away to not notice my wife's unnatural grimace, white knuckled death grip on the steering wheel and steely cold maniacal stare. He calls in the plate number, but before he receives a reply from Consuela at dispatch, he takes note of the too-many pointed star glistening on the rear window; a sticker that represents those near and dear to Officer Fluffies's donuts – I mean, heart...

He lets her pass.

Letting her pass is a good thing. My lovely, kind spirited wife & companion thinks nothing of spending an afternoon leading a police man hunt, or entertaining the troops with questionable challenges or mother jokes. Very funny. Don't laugh. The Oficers Fluffy toss you on the hood of their car and leave you there for hours.

She calls them names, good wholesome all American names, like “Sally” or “Mary”. And then asks them if they have put in an order for larger uniforms. I just smile and try to make sign language to let the Fluffies know that she not only is insane, but that we are only related by marriage and that the opinions expressed may not necessarily express my personal feelings.

I, in direct opposition, have been known to hide in an industrial garage or behind billboards for an entire labor day weekend in order to avoid being “officially” reminded of a possable broken headlight. Rolling red and blues in my rear-view mirror have been the cause of much money spent in wet cleanup at the car wash.

I suppose, to cut to the chase, I am saying that our collective experience with our brethren of law enforcement has not been as warm or as fuzzy as it is with, say, funerals, root canals or sewer exploration.

I guess the whole immigration thing won't really work unless we trust the Fluffies to act in the best interest of "we the people" without deference to politics and positioning.

Until that happens, I will be right here in my van under a camo tarp and a few well placed sage brush waiting until dark to make a diet coke run.

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