I Got Here As Fast I Could!

I really freakin' hate Mondays. Nothing good ever seems to happen on Mondays. In fact, my experience dictates that Mondays go out of their way to serve up a healthy dose of sadness and despair, and sometimes are feeling a little more aggressive and administer a nice Monday Morning Ass Whooping. Last Monday, I got my ass whooped: I got my first speeding ticket.

I had to make a trip to a nearby town first thing in the morning to visit a car dealership for my ad sales job. We all know how much I loooove car salesmen (ha) and trying to sell an advertising to a salesman is tricky. It's a total game of who can make the biggest power play (ultimately it is me, as I am the one who has boobs) and on a Monday morning I was certainly not bringing my A-game. I was driving down the road, busy feeling sorry for myself and dreading going to the second car dealership, when I came around a bend and saw a cop car in a parking lot on my side of the road.

It was one of those moments where you just instantly know you are screwed. He didn't waste any time whipping out behind me and turning on those dreaded flashing blues. As I pulled over, the first thought I had that didn't contain a large string of expletives was, "Ohmigod, you have to start crying." I proceeded to think of everything sad that I could, but nothing. I watched a middle-aged cop get out of his car, hike up his pants, and saunter over to me.

I had always imagined what I would do if I got pulled over for speeding. One option was to blame it on female issues in the hopes of making the cop so uncomfortable that he just had to let me go on my merry way. The other front runner idea was to blame the high speed on trying to get to a restroom due to digestive issues. It would take a pretty heartless person to not sympathize with that, right?

But nope. I completely choked. He went through the standard procedure of spending an absurd amount of time asking me stupid questions and taking my license back to his squad car to spend as long as possible sitting there with his lights on so that everyone passing by knows that he means business. After waiting for what felt like a million humiliating years, he strolled back up to my window with ticket in hand.

And I burst into tears.

I could tell Officer Monday Morning Ass-Wooping was totally thrown as he came back to someone he had left fairly composed now blubbering like a headcase. He explained the ticket to me as I thought to myself, "Dammit, tears! You couldn't appear just a little earlier? Fat load of help to me now, you bastards."

As he handed me that cursed piece of paper, he gave me this awkward look and asked, "Are you okay, m'am? Are you experiencing some sort of personal crisis?"

I looked at him blankly, biting my tongue as to not say, "OF COURSE I AM EXPERIENCING A PERSONAL CRISIS! YOU ARE GIVING ME A SPEEDING TICKET YOU IMBECILE!"

But I just shook my head and he peaced out pretty quickly. And fittingly, now that the waterworks started there was no turning it off. I pulled into a gas station parking lot to cry and sulk, then thought I had reached a point where I could call my dad.

"Dad, you are going to kill me," I said before bursting into tears again. (Really, the female issues thing may not have been too far from the truth.) Luckily he wasn't too angry, as he pointed out that now that I was married I got to pay my own fine. Fantastic.

Fast forward to Saturday, when I visited Canton and was riding in the car with my parents while ironically enough discussing my speeding ticket debacle.

"You know what I should have done?" I joked. "I should have just let him walk up and been like, 'I am sorry officer- I got here as fast I could!"

Not five minutes later, we turn a corner to a cop car just waiting to catch some prey.

"Oh, dad," I said as the cop pulled behind us with his lights on. My dad let loose of several of the expletives I had gotten to know so intimately just a few days beforehand as he pulled into a parking lot. Apparently it was the PoPo's lucky day because we were not alone- he had somehow managed to pull two cars over. He walked up to our car.

"Sir, do you know what the speeding limit is on this road?" he asked.

"Thought it was forty-five," my dad said defensively.

"No, sir, it is thirty-five miles per hour. Even if it were forty-five, you were still speeding."

I wasn't sure what move my dad was going to make- profuse apology? Disbelief? But he just shrugged his shoulders and said, "Sorry!"

"Oh, man," I said as the cop visited his other catch. "You are in trouble now. Now what were we talking about? Safe driving?"

Too soon. Dad was not amused.

We waited that everlong period of time while the cop does whatever he does, and finally he approached again.

"Sir, today I am going to let you off with a warning, but pay attention from now on," the officer said. My jaw dropped. After my dad made a little we're-totally-cool-now-because-you-didn't-give-me-a-ticket small talk, we finally continued on our way.

"What the hell?!" I said angrily. "How is that even fair? I can't believe you got off with a warning after totally giving him 'tude!"

"Well, I, unlike you, have not had a speeding ticket since 1984 and am not twenty-two," my dad said, spirits considerably lifted from a few minutes beforehand."Good day, isn't it?"

Hmph.

But It Means We're Passionate!

Last Wednesday was Mark's birthday. Because he is a few years older than me, during our relationship I tried to take every opportunity that I could to remind him that he was almost 25, which was halfway to 50, which was almost dead. Well, this birthday he actually turned 25 and I woke him up with a card expressing that I certainly was not going to remind him of his proximity to being an old geezer. I'm nice like that.

When I got to work, I hopped on the computer and of course the stalker feed had a list of all the people who had wished Mark happy birthday on Facebook. Now, recently Mark and I went to see The Social Network at the movie theater, which is basically the story of how the guy that started Facebook is the biggest asshat in the world and we should be ashamed of ourselves for making him a gazillionaire. Or at least that is what I got out of it. Also that Justin Timberlake is still extremely good-looking. So the fact that movie isn't enough to make me give up Facebook Crack (Oh, yes. Diet Coke is just a gateway drug compared to Facebook Crack.) makes me squirm a little on the inside every time I log on.

But that morning, I automatically typed in my obligatory "Happy Birthday, Husband of Mine!" message on Mark's wall, hit send, and froze. I already saw Mark earlier in the morning and wished him a happy birthday. And I was going to see him that night to celebrate his birthday with him. He was already very much aware that I acknowledged his birthday and subsequently wished him good tidings...so why did I robotically feel compelled to wish him a happy birthday on Facebook as well?

Maybe subconsciously I thought that if people looked at Mark's list of Happy Birthday wishers and saw that my name was conspicuously absent they would think, "Wow, that Beth sure is a horrible wife. She can't even take a moment to wish Mark happy birthday on Facebook, and therefore we can naturally draw the conclusion that she obviously doesn't love him." No, it does not make any logical sense, but how logical can we be if we are addicted to something where we can take care of virtual farm animals, find out which character from Twilight we are, and stalk an ex's new love interest all in one sitting?

I am certainly not going to bash Facebook because it does possess a lot of qualities of merit. Positives: reconnecting with old friends, getting the word out about an event (or a blog!), sharing funny videos or stories. This is the purpose of Facebook for me. But it does come with Negatives: having to involuntarily find out tidbits of information that people mistakenly think are important about themselves (i.e., what they had for lunch, how much they love their significant other, what song lyric they decide to be mysterious and vague with by putting as their Facebook status, etc.), risking your parents and/or other family members becoming your Facebook friends (Love you guys. I have nothing to hide.), getting invitations to fifty things a day that you don't give two shits about.

The biggest downside is that Facebook has propelled us into the Too Much Information Age. Unbeknownst to many people on the World Wide Web, there is such a thing as oversharing and people are getting ridiculous with it. The most recent example I can think of ended up launching me into a tirade of a whole different nature. One of Mark's friends had a convoluted status on Facebook about how he loved his girlfriend but at the same time hated her as well, but that was all okay because it meant they were passionate about each other.

Okay, first and foremost, you really don't need to be displaying your relationship drama over Facebook. Contrary to what you may think to be true, no one cares. If they do care, they will engage into some kind of meaningful interaction with you to find out how things are going with you and your boo and convey that they are emotionally invested in your problems. You know, like a text message saying "R U & sally doin ok?"

Second of all, I don't know where people get the idea that if two people are dating and are ripping each others' throats out every five seconds, it means that they are "passionate." Newsflash- it actually means you are delusional and the rocking make-up sex afterward simply indicates that you are horny. Not passionate. And it makes me passionate about wanting to smack you in the face.

Now if you will excuse me, I have to put the fact that I have a new blog post on my Facebook status...

That Thing Called Compromise

I don't really know where the hell October peaced out to so quickly, but now we are into November and quickly nearing the holiday season. Being that this is the first holiday season Mark and I will spend together as a married couple you would think that I would be all aglow with that newlywed aura, eager to send people Christmas cards with vomit-inducingly cute pictures from our honeymoon and plotting how I can get us into matching Santa hats or Christmas sweaters at every possible opportunity.

Yes, I am thrilled that we are about to spend the holidays as husband and wife for the first time. But marriage and compromise happen to be besties, and that is especially pertinent for us at the holidays. This particular compromise involves me deviating from the holiday tradition I have had with my family every year of my life and spending Christmas with Mark's family in Southbend, Indiana.

Don't get me wrong- after meeting many of Mark's family members for the first time at the wedding I am looking forward to spending some quality time together without the smile continually plastered on my face and the bulk of our conversation being me thanking them for coming to the wedding all the while thinking, "Oh my gosh, what did they say their names were??"

I have just had a routine for the last 21 years that has been both comically and comfortingly consistent. More often than not, it is the only time I get to see my extended family during the year and the predictability of the week-long trip to Kentucky (mom's family) and West Virginia (dad's family) comes all the way down to knowing what stories are going to be told about us when we were little. (A few highlights being the time I dropped my stuffed bear in the toilet and when my Grandma spent hours putting my hair into hot rollers only for me to hate it when I came out looking like a cross between Shirley Temple and a poodle who stuck its paw in an electric socket. She, however, thought it was precious and doesn't hesitate to remind me that it is her favorite hairstyle I have ever had. I was also five. She needs to let it go.)

Mark came along for the ride last year, and the fact that he survived and still wanted to marry me is a testament to his character (or a lapse in his sanity) and the reason why it is my turn to be the outsider on a new family Christmas. So my response has been to throw myself into the new set of plans headfirst and try not to think about how sad I will be when I stop to really think about it. But that is just how being married goes. It ain't no Burger King and you can't always have it your way.

Speaking of compromise, shortly after I wrote my previous post about my downstairs neighbors I ran into the guy as I was leaving for work in the morning. He was shirtless (and no Taylor Lautner, mind you) and rummaging through the girl's car. I pictured several scenarios, all involving me being really sassy and putting him in his place and one even involving me going all hot warrior chick on him and kicking his butt, before finally saying in a resigned and polite voice, "Excuse me. I have been hoping to catch you- I was wondering if you might be able to straighten your cars in the parking spaces. It's been raining nonstop and the last few times I have come back I haven't been able to get a close parking spot."

He looked at me for a second before shrugging and saying, "Sure."

And sure enough, when I got home both of their cars were neatly aligned in parking spaces and have been ever since. True, it may have had something to do with the fact that I had also gotten Mark to go to the landlord that morning to let him know about this problem and later finding that everyone in the building had received a note saying to be courteous and not take up two parking spots. But as far as I know, my last resort of patience and communication solved the problem. Who would have thought that kind of junk actually works?