The Time I Was Put in the Back of a Cop Car

I have weird work hours- different days off every week (although Sundays off is a staple) and my work day starts and ends about 2 hours later than the normal run of the mill 8-5 job.  Take that Dolly Parton, I have broken free of the confines of workin' for the man.  And I love it.

Every now and then, my day off is Friday, but I still have to work Saturday from noon to 7pm.  Not a problem.  Hell, even enough time for a mini-vacation!  I left Thursday night after working an off site party out of town and headed to Baton Rouge to stay with my sister-in-law and her boyfriend (well, ex now).  We'd shop, eat, drink, and go see an 80s cover band Friday night (side note: THE best type of band.  I really love 80s music, specifically of the hair band persuasion).  I even had other friends that would be in town, so I got to kill 2 birds with 1 stone by seeing them all at the same time.  I love mixing friends who don't know each either together- its always super random and enjoyable.

My time management skills for my mini-vacation were impeccable.  I was able to do everything and see everyone I had planned to do/see and more!  I was even able to wake up somewhat coherent the next morning at 7am for my 4 hour trek back home in time for work at noon. 

On the road, I was making great time.  I realized I would be back in town an hour before work and passed away the time figuring out where I would go for lunch.  Then my car started to lose speed and my steering wheel locked.  I was out of gas.  Straining to pull the car to the edge of the interstate sans power steering, I looked around.  Middle of nowehere Louisiana was sprawled out around me.  There was a sign up ahead, but just far enough away so you couldn't read it, taunting me.  I reached for my phone, which was about to die, sending me further into panic, and called my middle sister.  No service.  SHIT!  Tried again.  Nothing. 

Tried my friend Whitney, and it went through.  Yay!  Then it dropped the call.  Boo.  This fun little game went on long enough until I was frantically crying, knowing soon that hill people would descend upon my car, kidnap me and use me as a sacrifice to their nutria rat god named Herbert deep in the heart of the Louisiana backwoods.

Then my phone rang, and choking on every other word, I was explaining to Whitney what was happening.  She, being my most repsonsible friend and the perpetual voice of reason, told me to call Roadside Assistance, which I have through my insurance.  That Whitney with her smart ideas- she had saved the day!  Or so I thought.  Turns out RA isn't all that helpful.  Actually ever since that day, I have been meaning to call my insurance and complain and take it off my plan. 

I had no idea where I was, which isn't helpful when you need someone to assist you on the road!  I finally got the bright idea to turn the car on and use my navigation to figure out where I was.  Thanks, context clues and common sense.  I was 10 miles north of Natchitoches, 45 minutes away from home.  I was so proud of myself and didn't understand why the Roadside Assistance man didn't share the same enthusiasm for my knewfound talent.  That's because he was about to inform me that it would be 5 hours before someone could help me.  Shit, I could walk home faster than that and get the damn gas myself.

Hanging up the phone, I realized that my fate had been sealed.  I would have to make it in the wilderness, scavenging wild berries and Taco Bell wrappers littered on the side of the interstate.  All they would find of me would be my abandoned, gasless SUV with my goodbye letter written in dust on the hood, explaining that I had gone native.

I sat contemplating this fate and trying to figure out what my Mountain Woman name should be when a state trooper pulled up next to me and rolled down his window.  "You run out of gas?"  Trying to hide the fact that I had been frantically sobbing for the past 30 minutes and play it cool, all I could muster was a feeble nod yes.  He reversed his Tahoe and parked behind me.  A few minutes later, he got out and tapped on my window.  "Open your left side windows so you don't overheat and since they face away from the road.  Also turn off your hazard lights, or your battery will die, too.  I called the Sheriff's office, and they're sending someone to help you out."  Then he got back in his car and was gone.  I now obey all traffic laws while driving down I49- that dude is my hero.

Then the waiting game started again- this time waiting for the Sheriff's office dude.  What if he couldn't find me?  Or what if his call had actually been intercepted by a band of kidnappers, now on their way to get me?

Nope, it was a Natchitoches Parish Sheriff's deputy that showed up.  He asked me if I had any cash on me so he could go run and get gas from up the road.  Nope- I have a very staunch rule about not keeping cash on me- that way I am not lying to homeless people.  (My run ins with that segment of the population will constitute a whole other tale later...)  "OK- well, then you're going to have to come with me to get the gas.  Come on." 

I hopped out of the car and towards the police cruiser.  Then he opened up the door to the backseat.  OMG- all these people passing on the interstate think I am getting arrested.  Awesome.  I am sure someone I know is now conveniently driving by.  But then again, that woudl totally gain me some street cred.  Wacth out, bitches, I've been to the slammer.  Maybe I would get some tear tattoos on my eye when I got home.

I sat down in the backseat, separated from the police officer now behind the wheel by metal bars.  "Don't worry, we clean the seats."  He had read my mind.  That would be a topper to the day.  'No, seriously, I got the herpes from the backseat of the police cruiser I was in when not being arrested.'  Sure, everyone would believe that.

He then had to check my ID, obviously to prove that my oh-so-hardened-criminal-exterior was just an act and all.  Then he asked me if I had any sharp objects on me.  Being as painfully fearful of police as I am, I check my purse even though I knew I didn't keep weapons on me.  Except for today.  "I have a pair of scissors!"  I screamed in terror.  I had them still in my purse from the off site party we had Thrusday night.  Crap- arrested for scissors in my purse.  He then proceeded to laugh and say that was ok.  Looking back on it, I would've taken my scissors from me- they were big and sharp.  What if I was crazy (ok, let me rephrase, certifiably insane, better?)

We drove to the next exit, and I was let out of my mobile jail cell to go inside and pay for my price-gauaged-because-we're-in-the-middle-of-bfe-gasoline.  Then back to the car.  It was fun when we had to cut across the median to get back to my car- felt like I was on Dukes of Hazard!

I had grown to really like my captor by this point and was inches away from asking him to take a picture of me in the back seat of the cop car, when my thought process was cut short by him letting me out.  Damnit- took me too long to suck up the courage to ask, and now the opportunity was gone forever.  He filled up the tank with the tiny gas carrier and waited to make sure my car would start.  What a nice guy.

Then back to the overly priced gas station for me to fill up for reals.  I filled up the rest of the tank and went to back in the car, but couldn't move.  I had stepped in gum.  Awesome.

The Deep Tissue Massage Groupon

I have been meaning to write this blog for a while now, but only ever remember to while driving or a store (because that is where my ideas spring to life, aka- the places that make me mad.)  I just read another blog about "seizing the day", so I thought "what the hell?  today does sound good."  So here I am.  The idea is to share my random adventures of a person who has Hulk-like anger issues because looking back on what unfolded is always funny afterwards. 

So the back story, why the hell am I so angry?  Who knows.  I think I get it from my dad inherently, and then I was the youngest child, so I wasn't punished as much as my other siblings, aka- temper tuntrums were never met with negative reinforcement.  They just didn't have them in them by the third daughter.  And I don't deal emotionally and mentally with my problems.  There.  I am an angry basketcase.  Its out there.  But the good news is that I have a good sense of humor.  Otherwise life would probably really suck.  Because normally if we weren't laughing, we'd be crying.

Now to my first post: My Deep Tissue Massage Groupon.

I LOVE groupons.  I will buy at least 1 a week.  My favorite so far would probably have to be the one for accupuncture or the one for ice cream.  The one that got away that I really wish I had purchased: 1 hour flight lesson.  I coudl still kick myself for not getting that one.  I bought one for a 1 hour deep tissue massage a few weeks ago and had my appointment this weekend.  Now, I could release some of my tension- a new wave form of anger management!

I like massages, but the real draw is that my Rheumatologist told me about 2 years ago that I should be getting them at least once a month because of my "fibromyalgia".  (Because of stress and my anger problems.  At least it was better than the initial diagnosis of lupus.  Bitch, please, I have an awesome immune system, so I knew that wasn't the case.)  Also notice the bunny ears around fibromyalgia.  Yes, I do believe that in some cases it is a legitimate disease.  But I think they throw the term out way too loosely- much like they do with ADD these days.  There are people who really do have it, then people that use it as an excuse.  I hold stress in my back, but I don't think I need to join a support group at the YMCA for the disease.  Thus the bunny ears. 

Also, I think the doctor wanted to diagnose me with something out of spite.  The walls in his back-alley-abortion-clinic-esque office were really thin, so I'm pretty sure he heard my sister and I making fun of his extremely effiminite voice.  And I am sure he also noticed our side glances coupled with shit eating grins when he told us he was married and had kids.  I mean come on, just come out of the closet already.  Let's put it this way, I have never been to another MD that ever told me I should go to church.

Well, rheumatology man, guess what?!  Deep tissue massages are flipping expensive.  So I get one more like every 6 months.  Every time the masseuse tells me I need to come every month with wide, stern looking eyes.  At least I gave them a good workout, though.  My favorite is when they sigh because they realize the hour of gruelling elbow grease ahead of them with my back made of stealy tension.

I was really excited to use my Groupon.  I got there Saturday morning and was really excited.  It took me a few minutes to realize that this was the very place where I had my first ever massage in high school.  It was a graduation present form my mom.  That was a fun time- no one ever warns you that a massage consists of your whole body.  Soooo.... little 18 year old me didn't know that clean shaven legs would be a necessity.  Especially with the male masseuse.  Womp womp.

Well good news, past me.  I made an ass of myself once again at the fine salon/spa establishment a mer 8 years later.  Your embarassment was avenged.  They of course make you disrobe before your massage in your little room because a clothes-on massage would be really awkward and hard to do.  So I did so and folded my clothes neatly to show how oh-so-fancy I am and got under the covers face down.  The masseuse entered after a polite knock and got to work.  She unfolded the sheet down to my lower back, and it hit me.  I was in my birthday suit, which is normally a massage faux pas.  I'm not that modest- actually I spent the entire Saturday beforehand walking around in my towel in the hotel suite before my sister's wedding, and in front of 6 other females.  Whatever.  But completely bare, not my bag.  After all, I am from the south, and we do have some ounce of modesty and decency.  Ahem, Jersey Shore, I'm looking at you.  But behind your back so as not to offend.

I talked myself down from this little freak out, and bit my tongue to take my mind off the painful beating my upper back was enduring.  They might as well pull out a jackhammer for my shoulders.  Its ridiculously tight up there.  Still 3 days later, it is sore to the touch.

But then it was time for the leg massage.  Luckily clean shaven this time, the moving of the sheet to expose one leg at a time was causing a minor breakdown for me.  Why the hell did I forget to keep my undies on.  Stupid rookie mistake.  Once on the second leg, my masseuse finally told me to stop shuffling my other leg closer every time she tried to position the sheet. 

I apologized and told her why I was being so weird.  She said "you know you don't have to take them off."  And I died a little inside.  "Yes, I know.  I was just so excited about the massage, I forgot."  "Well, don't worry.  I didn't see anything.  And I don't want to." 

Womp womp.  Not that I want her to check me out, but awww.  I guess it is better than her saying "but I want to."  Oh, self consciousness.  So needless to say, my anger management outlet of getting a calming massage actually turned out to be a major crisis inducer.  Granted, I didn't get mad, but it definitely wasn't the relaxing getaway for which I was hoping.  Oh, well.  Better luck next time.