wherein no weapons are drawn

by Bella Rum

policeman police officer copWe live at Hope Depot now. It’s our permanent residence. You can visit me there, send my junk mail there and deliver all my summonses there. You can find me in the ceiling fan aisle, the flooring section or the kitchen improvement department. I’m the one with the smokin’ hot Visa. The theme song to The Good, The Bad and The Ugly plays in the background when I pull it out.

If asked, I would have bragged that we maintained our house as well as Bob Villa. This is what I’ve learned. The length of a football stadium stretches between maintaining a house and upgrading/updating/neutralizing a house. The realtor only made three suggestions, but we’ve run into a couple of glitches. Now our timeframe is shot. Shot dead. Buyers like to buy in spring and be all settled by the time school starts.

Yesterday, something important wouldn’t fit into something crucial which wouldn’t make something essential work. So, we were on our second trip to Hope Depot when I decided to take the back way. I was just starting down the hill when I saw a police car snuggled comfortably into a slightly concealed spot on the side of the road. He was waiting for…. me. As soon as I passed him, I told H that I’d gone through radar. H continued pulling the Whopper he’d just ordered at Burger King out of the bag. I pulled over.

The officer approached the car, stopping just behind where the front door meets the back door – obviously cautious of old people with Big Whoppers and Whopper Juniors. He peeked in the window and saw H wrestling with the Burger King bag. I was like… hey, could you pull yourself away from that long enough to get the registration out of the glove compartment.

I haven’t gotten a ticket in about ten years. Did you know that police officers let old ladies off the hook more than any other demographic? Even more than young, beautiful women. They see us as their mothers or grandmothers: non-threatening, law-abiding and sweet. We bake cookies. We don’t break laws.

He took my license and registration (once H could pull himself away from his Whopper long enough to find it), and went back to his vehicle. He ran my info. and came back to the car. He told me I was doing 57 mph in a 45 mph zone. He was so nice. He said, “I noticed how you slowed down just as you came into the 45 mph zone.” He assumed I did that because I’m law-abiding, but have to admit that I saw him waiting for me. He actually told me that he knew I didn’t do this sort of thing “on a regular basis.” (He could just tell.) And, of course, my record is clean. He told me this was only a warning and to “proceed carefully.” I drove about ten yards and pulled into the HD parking lot. I was that close.

This prejudice that people have about old women is a nice perk. It’s the one advantage we get when the boobs go south, the middle thickens and the bladder sags. Young men think we’re harmless. And maybe even cute. Someone who looks like us rocked them to sleep, wiped their noses and kissed their boo boos. We are the the ones who allowed them to be vulnerable without judgement. I say we exploit this to the hilt.

And One More Thing:

I hate fast food (except McDonald’s bacon/egg/cheese bagel), and believe it or not, I’ve never had a Whopper. H convinced me to try his favorite fast food, so I ordered the Whopper Junior, but they got my order wrong. I have no idea what I ate, but it had a sickeningly sweet sauce on it, and I could only eat half of it. Yuck.

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