breakin' the law
Welcome to the Weekly Guest Blogger series.
Yeah, that’s me. A real law/rule breaker.
I’m actually, despite my big flippin’ “tell it like it is mouth,” not much of a rule breaker. I never chewed gum in class and I sure as eff never cut a single class. Not one. Swear it on my Vic Secret card.
I developed my big mouth over time. It was sort of like the making of a fine wine. Okay, maybe it wasn’t fine, it’s definitely of the Boone’s Farm variety (remember the strawberry crap?), but it sat for a long time in a dark cellar all fermenting. Just waiting to be opened so you could smell the cork scented with the perfume of my flapping gums.
Like I said, it took time, a big, ugly, lost my Choo’s for a little while divorce, and the taste of freedom after almost twenty years of marriage. All of a sudden, I had a voice—and the option to use it—or not. More often than not, I used.
Oh, Cheebus and a Shetland pony, did I use. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t beat people down with this new voice, but if you asked a question, and I asked if you wanted me to be honest, and you said yes, then I’m sorry if I made you cry—but you did ask. I also don’t want you to think I’m into purposely hurting feelings. If I know it’ll crush you, I most likely won’t crush. Unless you push…
That said, as the years have passed, and I’ve rather grown into this big mouth of mine, I’ve also had some trouble with my temper, too. It doesn’t happen often, but there’s been a time or two when something’s just spilled out of my mouth in my surprise and because I forgot to turn my censor on, or worse, I’ve just reacted.
I know. Most of you who know me personally, like really know me, know it takes a lot, but if you push a button (like really put your foot in the kitchen push my button), I come out swinging. I’m pretty short, and I’m certain it has to do with my Napoleon complex, I mean, if we were hitting the therapy couch and all—that’d be my diagnosis. Nothing makes me crazier than someone in my space. Because in the words of one of my favorite songs “Jump Around”—“I ain’t goin’ out like no punk, bitch.” Sooooooo harsh.
Anyway, this is the perfect place for a segue into an example of my big mouth.
Me. Just the other day, driving down a two-lane road in my cute new VW Beetle convertible. I’m listening to that very song “Jump Around” all loud and proud. I’m happy because it’s a nice day, the top is down, and I’m going to get a new outfit for an event I have to do this weekend.
Out of no-effin’-where a guy in shorts, a gray-blue shirt and dark sunglasses jumps into the middle of the road with what looks like a sorry ass version of a super-duper laser tag gun and points it at me. Me!
Immediately, I slam on the breaks not just because dude gave me a heart attack, but because he’s in the middle of the damn road, and I don’t have a choice.
And then he does it—he lifts his finger and points. To which, I’m suitably outraged and ready to climb out of my cute new Beetle and beat his ass until he screams his mother’s cousins uncle’s name. I’m thinkin’ he’s some kid just playin’ around, and I’m ready to show him just how nurturing this mother can be. J
But then I realize he’s a cop, and that super-duper laser gun isn’t for tag but a radar gun for speeding. Now all in this brief space of like twenty seconds, I realize he’s not a cop, but I also realize, I was trying out the cruise control on my new car and I know as sure as I know yellow is a color that works on virtually no one, that I wasn’t speeding.
So in appropriate “lookin’ to bounce this bitch right”, I’m ready to get my ghetto on gangland style and rip him a new one.
He looks at me like I’ve plain lost my mind for slamming on the brakes after he’s Cirque De Soleil’d his way out into the middle of the road with his finger all up in my face and he says, “Not. You,” all thundery and authoritative.
Which just serves to make me crazier. So after scaring the silk panties right off me, it’s not me you’re pointing that gun at all Charlie’s Angels style—with that wide stance and that look on your face like you just caught The Zodiac Killer’s sister?
And that’s when my big mouth opens—like some cavernous, never ending black hole of “don’t eff with me.”
I stand on my brakes and give him the dirty look. “Not me, what?” I thunder back. Because I’m all about the wild-eyed, froth at the mouth that makes you think I’m crazy look.
Cop, all with the swagger says, “I’m not pulling you over.”
Ohhhhh. Well, then. That’s the perfect reason to scare the bejesus out of a taxpaying, law-abiding citizen by jumping out in the middle of the road right in front of my cute new car, right?
I pay no mind to the fact that he’s a cop. I pay no mind to the fact that he has the authority to arrest/ticket/cite me—whatever. All I can see is the color red and him in the center of my infuriated haze.
Sooooo, finger in the air, all condescending and arrogant, I do that thing I told you about before—I react. “Then maybe when you wave that finger all up in the air like it’s some kind of magic GD wand, you ought to learn to point it in the right direction so it doesn’t end up in your squashed ass after I mistakenly run you over because you jumped out in the middle of the road and nearly gave me a heart attack!”
And then I realize I’ve just verbally assaulted a police officer. My total bad.
But he started it… So head held high, I slink back down into my Beetle and drive away as fast as the speed limit will allow before the coppers slap those cuffs on me and haul me down to the poe-poe.
So if you ever hear about a big haired, even bigger-mouthed chick arrested in the state of Texas—I hope you’ll take pity on me and send bail money.
Because I’m old and I don’t think Big Sue has any openings for Assistant Bitch.
For those of you who don’t know Dakota, you’re truly missing out. Not only does she have a fun paranormal romance series, but she’s a genuinely fun chick to talk to. I hope you’ll go check out her website and maybe track her down on Facebook and Twitter for the sheer fun of it.
Until the next time…I’ll be writing a bit of paranormal romance of my own.