I decided to enjoy a frozen Margarita while walking Marco the Psychotically Needy Puppy. After walking just 10 feet from my front gate, a police car rolled up beside me. Crap.
Me: “Good evening, officer. Oh, hi, Steve [whose name has been changed to protect his identity]. I didn’t recognize you!”
Officer: “Hey, sweetie. How you doing? Is that a Margarita?”
Me: “Why, Steve, it’s just a cold, refreshing beverage!”
Officer: “Do you really expect me to believe that?”
Me: “Steve, we have an open container law that I love and respect.”
Officer: “[Snorting with laughter] Seriously, do you expect me to believe that?”
Me: “Let’s say, totally hypothetically, that I was sucking down tequila. Would you give me a citation for that?”
Officer: “Hell, no!”
Me.: “Oh, in that case, you want to come in and I’ll make you one?”
Officer: “I’m still on duty but get off in 45 minutes.”
Me: “Cool. We’re having spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. Want to join us?”
Officer: “See you in a few.”
I know that sometimes I
whine about living here, but there are times when I love living in a small town.
Side note for those who keep trying to fix me up even though I’m not divorced yet. (You know who you are): Steve is just a friend and is married. I invited him to dinner because I knew his wife, who is a friend, is out of town on a conference and would appreciate me feeding him instead of letting him eat a heart-clogging plate of food at the
Waffle House.
Labels: small town life
