I have a confession to make...I've been driving around with expired inspection stickers for a while now. Some of you may be shocked to find out after all this time that I am nothing but a hardened criminal...a hooligan...shall we go as far as gangsta? It appears this whole "good guy" act was exactly that - an act.
Today after dropping my daughter off at preschool I decided to run into the post office with my two, very grumpy little boys. Nolan, my 2-year-old, was whining for blankie, which had been left at home. Beckett was screaming because Nolan refused to share any of the Cookie Crisp he had in a little baggie. I wouldn't have normally stopped when they were in such a mood, but I needed stamps to send fliers to local businesses asking them to help me in my fundraising goal for the St. Baldrick's event I am taking part in.
I pulled into a spot and noticed a police officer slowly pulling over to me. I had been spotted...the gig was up. Fair enough, I thought. He started to pull in next to me, but I guess he got a good look at me and could see my evil nature shining through. He pulled his police cruiser behind me so I couldn't escape. Can't you just see it now..."Nolan, Beckett, hold on. Momma's gonna see what this minivan can do. I'm not going down for this!" Now imagine the sound of screeching tires and smell the burning rubber as I peel out of the post office parking lot for have an expired inspection. GIVE ME A BREAK!
It gets better. After being certain to have me blocked so I can't escape, he turns his lights on. Really? Seriously now. It isn't like I had pulled in after swerving all over the road, stumbled into the liquor store while my kids are left in the freezing minivan. I was at the post office for stamps to send letters to raise money for children with cancer. Ugh.
Anyway, he didn't even get me for the expired inspection. Apparently my registration was expired as well. I can honestly say I had no idea. I never got the renewal form in the mail. I know this with 100% certainty because I have a regular routine when those lovely envelopes come from the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation. They go in a particular spot so Joe can take care of it. It never came, and I don't make a habit of looking at the little sticker on the back of the car to see when it was up.
I assured him I would go straight home, get on the computer and renew my registration pronto. He didn't buy it. Granted, he could have also written me a ticket for the inspection, which he didn't. He merely gave me a warning there. However, my trip for stamps ended with a $160 ticket. At this point you can imagine how pleasant the boys were strapped into the car seats in a very cold minivan outside the post office. I, of course, blame the entire thing on my husband. Isn't everything always the husband's fault?
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