"I'm really passionate about parking enforcement. I'm going to live for that dream,"

said no one ever.

As you might have surmised, this is a post wherein I briefly elaborate on my magical week of baffling brushes with law, or, as
some may prefer to call it, "stuff" cops say.

I'm a regular outlaw.
But I need to learn how to keep my stupid mouth shut.

Incident the first:
It's a rainy, constructiony drive along the interstate 215. It's after midnight and I'm anxious to reach Kali's house for a brief repose because I must return from whence I came (rehearsal, of course) in less hours than the suggested sleep time for an adult female of my age and proportions. I'm achy and hungry. It's raining really hard.

-flashing lights-
-expletive-
-crunching footsteps, beating windshield wipers-

Officer (looking at me like I'm a supreme idiot): Ma'am, you need to turn your lights all the way on.
Me: Um. They are.
Officer (Obviously not believing me, looking down his nose at me with disdain, and fiddling with my lights): Oh, alright, your tail lights are out then.
Me: okay, thanks.
Officer (once more with the idiot look): You need to get that fixed.
Me: okay, thanks.

Which was fine. Normal, even.
Until...

Incident the Second
A few days later

Driving home from rehearsal, as usual. Tired. Achy. Starving. Approaching University Parkway Exit. Just one more! I can do it. Keep blasting that air conditioning. Must-- keep-- going-- a. little. bit. further.
UNTIL

-flashing lights-
-EXPLETIVE-
-swaggering towards my window, taking his sweet, sweet time-

The officer tells me I need to turn my lights on. I tell him my tail lights are out and I haven't had time to take my car in. He starts writing me a citation. Wait a minute! Ugh. Fine. He says I was going five over. [If you're not familiar with Utah driving traditions, "five over" doesn't really exist because it's kind of under the speed limit. If you steadily go five over you will undoubtedly be tail-gated and probably rear-ended]
So I'm, like, WHAT!??????

But I passively say "okay, thanks" or something as he writes out my ticket.
And then.
And THEN.

He says that I need to "find an officer and show it to him" to which I blurt out
"or her"
after which he looks at me like I'm an amoeba and says "excuuuuuse me?"
and I say,
"Um, I can show it to a female officer, right?"
and he says angrily,
"yeah, I guess there are some of those".

Angel Morelli just needs to learn to keep her big mouth shut.

Incident the third
Today; about an hour ago

This time the officer IS a her, and she's parking police. I funny-run to my car when I see her because I'm holding a backpack, a plastic bag full of garbage, a yoga mat and a few other sundry items.
Me (looking pretty stupid and sweaty, and consciously trying to sound pleasant): Hi, um, that's my car.
Officer (inscrutable): Why didn't you park in the lines?
Me: well, um, there were three other cars parked here and I thought it was an expansion because of all the construction.
Officer (passionately): Conformity is NOT the way to live! If you see something a certain way, don't just do it. THINK and do it a different way!!!

Me: ??

note: I didn't have the heart to tell her what I wanted to, that "parking inside the lines" is probably the first example on dictionary.com under "conformity". In fact, parking regulations and laws in general require complete conformity and her job is to enforce conformity in the parking lot.
But instead of celebrating my non-conformist approach to parking that you would expect her to heartily endorse, she practices this strange, voodoo reverse psychology on me! I am baffled.

Me: Um. I don't think I was conforming....
Officer (Shooting laser beams from her eyes): Pay more attention next time.
Me: um. okay. thanks. [or something]

So, basically I'm *this* close to life as a fugitive, which sounds romantic, perhaps, but really probably involves the most baffling discussions with condescending, belittling individuals with some seriously fallacious thinking and a uniform.

Are those requirements to attend police school?

It's okay.

I'm still here.
It's just that, well, it's that time of year, if you get my meaning. In case not, my meaning is that it's the end of the semester (which usually feels like the end of my life).
You see, there are just So many pages to write, with words like "thesis," "prospectus," "annotated," and "graduate" attached to them.

It's a hard life, but somebody has to live it, you know? How would the earth turn with one less scholar?
 So, while you have a week or something left in London and are barricaded in your flat eating digestives like Winston Churchill smoked cigars (or while I am), staring at a screen and literally howling like a hound dog puppy every few hours..... well, here's something to make you feel better about the past and future (the present is beyond me, frankly).

The Pleasures of Paris: A Sneak Preview

 

Jacob and me being tourists in the rain

 

 Feeling pretty awesome at The Gates of Hell

(Jacob got some "ideas" for our future children's bedroom door..)

 

 And enjoying the best French culture has to offer.



oops.
Did I mention that I have so much to be grateful for and that I love my studies and my career and everything?
It's just... well...
Well, maybe when all this is done and I scoop my scattered brains back together, I'll post about Paris and maybe even (dare I say it) my wedding?

Cheers, friends. It's all okay.
Banana

Packing is hard.

But having a little Desmond certainly helps.

We wish you the happiest of New Years.

I don't want to write papers anymore.

I just want to get married.

Bridesmaid Dresses

are proving impossible.

love,
Banana

clocks and things

I'm either happy or productive.

Today I'm happy

(Which sucks).

I need to be productive.

"If some great Power would agree to

make me always think what is true and

do what is right, on condition of being

turned into a sort of clock and wound up

every morning before I got out of bed, I

should instantly close with the offer."

-Thomas Henry Huxley

I would so much rather be happy and a little selfish and happy and a wee bit oblivious than to always be doing something I'm supposed to be doing. All the time! Yerrghghgh. 

Today I want to eat Gardettos and ice cream and shave my legs and get started on my reading list in the sun. I want to write a song and a few letters and play with a baby or two and go on a hike and perform on stage tonight.

I suppose today I want to be a housewife.

yerghghghhhhhh.

The Barmaid at the Folies-Bergères

I've never been bored.
not ever.
At least, I've never been this bored.
I've not ever been this bored before.

What I mean to say, of course, is that I love my job.
As a child, I prided myself in the fact that I could play alone for, well, ever, with almost no stimuli but...myself. I had enough fuel (actually, fuel brings up something of a sore spot right now, as I ran out of gas on a dark rainy highway last night and the man at the gas station [that I had to walk to in the cold, rainy darkness] was so unaccommodating. bother.) in my over-active imagination to last me until bedtime. Or at least until my sister got home so I could terrorize her.
But now, between snotty comments of "I want your job!", "You get paid to surf the web all day!?" [excuse me, I am not surfing the web, thank you, I am reading the New York Times, you "I play arena football because I can't play real football" imbecile] and "working hard?" I literally have nothing to do for extended periods of time.

And... okay, I'll say it:
I'm afraid my imagination isn't what it used to be.
Eek! I said it! How can I be bored? I've made lists ["How to Improve this Desk," "10 ways to commit suicide using only office supplies," etc.]! I've played games (Granted, "guess what I'm thinking- extreme edition" isn't that fun alone). And yet I can read the symptoms. I'm classically, through-and-through, Jungle Book vultures, watch-Pete-and-Pete re-runs-all-day bored.
bored bored bored.
And so I have no choice but to eat all these blueberry, cinnamon, chocolate chip, pumpkin, and cranberry scones they keep not eating. OH, and the huckleberry cinnamon rolls.
And the cheese danishes.

whoopsies.

NOW I'M BORED AND FAT!

Anyway,

Number one on my "How to Improve This Desk" list is, of course, Manet. So, I sometimes get funny looks at the lone picture I have taped up under here at eye level:

If anyone asks about her, I tell them it's a private joke. Which is kind of thrilling, feeling like Manet and I developed some sort of running jest over coffee while we developed the impressionist movement together.

We didn't. But still.

Look at her! Her bored, lonely, stare- trapped, stifled! in alienation- while her dreamy, skewed reflection attends to the swarthy customer in the stove pipe hat. She's just like me.

So we made a deal, her and I. We're going to tough out the shady men over the counter and our lowly days in the dregs of the working class. But these days we spend at our respective "bars" will turn us into...

masterpieces.

That's the deal, anyway.

Unfortunately, it was something of a one-sided conversation. And she doesn't have texting, so...

Hurrah for the winding down of day four! Tomorrow I'm leaving on a jet plane with the girls (mama, grandmama, and aunt suzanemama) for ickle Mindy-cousin's wedding. Still trying to make something of myself. I suppose most things just work one day at a time, don't they?

meh.

Time for a scone.

Banana

I don't want to be a journalist.

[icky pooey journalism blog here]