There’s a long list of things I’m not good at. And while driving is not on that list, driving below the posted speed limit is probably in the top ten. I think it’s pretty obvious that since I’m a better driver than most, I should be allowed to drive fast. Roads should have different speed limits for differently skilled people. If you’re a moron you have to drive more slowly. If you’re over 65 you have to drive more slowly. If you’re a woman… then I’m sure you’re an excellent driver and have never made a mistake behind the wheel in your life and could probably drive circles around Mario Andretti. And I promise I wrote the previous sentence of my own volition and was in no way threatened by the LR or any other woman in my life.
Unfortunately, policemen tend not to agree with my stance. Despite my heavy foot, before we moved out here I had not gotten a speeding ticket in five years. And believe me, it wasn’t for lack of trying. There were moments where I neared warp speeds on the New Jersey Turnpike. Out here though, my out of state (on the U.S. side) or out of country plates double as a great big giant speed trap target. I got two in the first two months we were here, but in what I would consider dubious circumstances. Thankfully they were both on the U.S. side.
Cue the ominous music.
Enter stage left Mexican Cop on motorcycle emerging from speed trap.
Now, I obviously have no problem admitting when I’m speeding, but there were two cars going faster than me on road one (the road that goes to the bridge to the U.S.) when the motor bike cop pulled out behind me and turned his siren on. I pulled over, put on my dutiful apologetic cop face, and mixed it in with a heavy helping of confused American gestures. I wasn’t really worried, it’s Mexico after all, and everything’s cheap. How expensive could a ticket really be?
He spoke a little English, which made things easier, and did the normal cop thing, telling me how fast I was going and blah blah blah. Then we got to the problem. Apparently in Mexico if you get a ticket they take your drivers license until you pay. The cop was very polite, and even showed me the other drivers licenses he collected that day as proof that he wasn’t scamming me or anything. I don’t think I need to explain why this could be a giant problem for me. But I will anyway. First, I was driving towards the U.S. where the possibility of being stopped by CBP (that’s Customs and Border Patrol for all you uninitiated folk) going either into the U.S. or back to Mexico later existed. When being asked for ID, saying “The Mexican traffic cop took my license” ranks slightly below, “The Notorious D.O.G ate it.” Second, even if I got back home without a problem, there was the problem of getting my license back. Not to impugn the Mexican police who I’m sure are all fine and upstanding individuals, but we do live in a place that leads the world in murders, and of those murders over ninety percent go unsolved. So my faith in getting my license back if I let it out of my sight was not exactly strong.
I was in a bind. I wasn’t about to give the admittedly very nice and understanding policeman my license, and he wasn’t about to just let me drive off without a ticket…or so he thought. It turns out that the LR’s job is not without its perks (it better have perks, I mean they made us move down here so they have a lot of making up to do). For example, they have a roving security team to make sure that their employees are safeish. So I very politely told the cop that I needed permission before I could give him my license, and asked if I could call my employer (not technically my employer but whatever he didn’t know wasn’t going to get me arrested). He said sure, and I called the LR, who called the security people who were dispatched to come rescue me (and by rescue I mean politely explain to the policeman that there was no way in hell he could have my license).
At this point I suspect that Senor Policeman decided that I was not really worth his time. Without too much more fuss, he handed me my license, told me to slow down, shook my hand and drove off. So, Mexico isn’t all bad, in fact it marks the first time that I have ever talked my way out of a ticket.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
But Dogs Don't Have Toes
So, it’s over two weeks later and he’s back. I haven’t been shot, kidnapped, drug muled (which I’ve decided to make a verb) mugged, or menaced. I’ve just been living life, which mainly consists of sitting on the couch and watching the winter Olympics. I’m becoming finely versed in the higher points of curling strategy, and will put my knowledge of the U.S. Nordic Combined team up there with anybody. And by that I mean, I know that the Nordic combined consists of ski jumping and cross country skiing, but not, to my disappointment, shooting.
Usually the D.O.G. wouldn’t stand for such sedentary couch sitting behavior, at least not if I wanted to keep all my fingers in working order. After all, a puppy’s life only consists of four things really, eating, playing, bathrooming, and that curious feeling that’s starting to develop in his nether regions. Well, last week he had the fourth thing removed. Poor little guy. And after having his testosteronectomy he has had to wear, menacing music please….The Cone of Shame.
The Cone’s actual (and really quite fitting name) is a Victorian Collar, which I suppose means that late 19th century noble people had problems refraining from licking themselves. The challenge with putting the Cone on our pup is that he had just started to figure out where all his arms and legs were at the same time. Now he has to account for this giant white not quite albatross around his neck. He can’t. It results in him walking five steps, having the ride side of the cone knock into the wall, D.O.G. looking, stopping, looking around confused, taking five more steps, rinsing and repeating. And he’s not the only one who suffers. I am intimately acquainted with how the edges of the Cone feel banging into the back of my knees as the poor pup fails to figure out that he can’t run through my legs like he’s used to.
So with no more walking and with a dubious sense of balance and spatial perception, little D.O.G. had to find other ways to amuse himself. Chief among them was stealing my socks. It started off innocently enough when I carelessly left one lying around. He decided to play keep away. He’s a dog, it’s what they do. Soon though, he developed a full on sock addiction. I adopted the habit of putting one sock in my pocket while I donned the other. D.O.G. found this a novel new twist to keep away. My plan worked for a day and a half until, while bending over to put one sock on, I felt the pup jump up and rest his hands on my waist. He briefly nuzzled my hip then jumped down and ran off. I rejoiced in my brief respite from puppy molestation, and thanked the stars for whatever had distracted the hyperactive one. Then I reached into my pocket for my second sock. It was gone. Across the room puppy cocked his head at me and did a little dance before running off with his prize. My smart little dog had gone into my pocket and extracted my sock.
I have been forced to designate dog socks, and non dog socks. Non dog socks are not put on or taken off around the puppy. In fact they are never even worn around the house without shoes on over them. He can yank a sock off a foot and be two rooms away before you start to wonder why your toe feels cold and wet. But at least they gave him something to do other than eat my hand while jumping around our living room. So, that’s what life is at the moment. I watch curling, and hide my socks from a puppy wearing a Victorian Collar.
Usually the D.O.G. wouldn’t stand for such sedentary couch sitting behavior, at least not if I wanted to keep all my fingers in working order. After all, a puppy’s life only consists of four things really, eating, playing, bathrooming, and that curious feeling that’s starting to develop in his nether regions. Well, last week he had the fourth thing removed. Poor little guy. And after having his testosteronectomy he has had to wear, menacing music please….The Cone of Shame.
The Cone’s actual (and really quite fitting name) is a Victorian Collar, which I suppose means that late 19th century noble people had problems refraining from licking themselves. The challenge with putting the Cone on our pup is that he had just started to figure out where all his arms and legs were at the same time. Now he has to account for this giant white not quite albatross around his neck. He can’t. It results in him walking five steps, having the ride side of the cone knock into the wall, D.O.G. looking, stopping, looking around confused, taking five more steps, rinsing and repeating. And he’s not the only one who suffers. I am intimately acquainted with how the edges of the Cone feel banging into the back of my knees as the poor pup fails to figure out that he can’t run through my legs like he’s used to.
So with no more walking and with a dubious sense of balance and spatial perception, little D.O.G. had to find other ways to amuse himself. Chief among them was stealing my socks. It started off innocently enough when I carelessly left one lying around. He decided to play keep away. He’s a dog, it’s what they do. Soon though, he developed a full on sock addiction. I adopted the habit of putting one sock in my pocket while I donned the other. D.O.G. found this a novel new twist to keep away. My plan worked for a day and a half until, while bending over to put one sock on, I felt the pup jump up and rest his hands on my waist. He briefly nuzzled my hip then jumped down and ran off. I rejoiced in my brief respite from puppy molestation, and thanked the stars for whatever had distracted the hyperactive one. Then I reached into my pocket for my second sock. It was gone. Across the room puppy cocked his head at me and did a little dance before running off with his prize. My smart little dog had gone into my pocket and extracted my sock.
I have been forced to designate dog socks, and non dog socks. Non dog socks are not put on or taken off around the puppy. In fact they are never even worn around the house without shoes on over them. He can yank a sock off a foot and be two rooms away before you start to wonder why your toe feels cold and wet. But at least they gave him something to do other than eat my hand while jumping around our living room. So, that’s what life is at the moment. I watch curling, and hide my socks from a puppy wearing a Victorian Collar.
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