Yesterday I was in the car with the boys, talking to Earl on the phone, when I got a back windowful of flashing blue lights. "Uh-oh, honey, gotta go. I'm getting pulled over."
The cruiser had been sitting at the end of my street, and came after me as soon as I turned the corner. What had I done? And why had I been so careless as to do it in front of a cop?
Mind racing, I dug through my purse for my license. Amid the old grocery receipts and new toothbrushes from the kids' recent trip to the dentist, I finally found my wallet. I pulled out the least flattering photo ever taken in the history of the Registry, and waited for the moment of reckoning.
Madame Officer approached and said, "Do you know your registration sticker is expired?"
I turn and see that there's a very clear number 3 with a blue border adorning the lower right corner of my windshield. That means that somehow it slipped our minds in March that it was time to get the van inspected. I don't even know what color the sticker is supposed to be this year.
I said the only thing that popped into my mind: "I'm going to kill my husband!"
Madame Officer smiled and said, "I would, too." Then she handed me a written warning, and told me to get it inspected as soon as I could. And I very gingerly continued on my way.
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