Cuff Me, Part Dos

As I exited Kindermusik, which Gretta absolutely loves, I lingered a while in the parking lot chit chatting with Dubya and J-Lo. We had lots of stuff to catch up on, as we always do, but mostly we were waiting for Lil' Jo to settle down, since I was apparently ripping him away from his mother's womb while she visited the dentist later that day. It's always such an awkward situation when you know you're a perfectly capable babysitter, but for some reason, the kid just doesn't want to believe you, and cries and cries, and the mom gives you that look, like, "are you sure you're okay with this?" . I was totally okay with taking him, but he just didn't want to leave. I don't blame him, she's an awesome mom, she bakes things like German Chocolate Cake Bars, and Ribs and Red Beans and Rice, and Home Made Rolls. I make things like McDonalds Chicken McNuggets, so really, there's no comparison. I should get to my point or this post will be a freaking novella.

So we sat there, chatting in the parking lot, and a Park Ranger Police car pulls up next to my van. I instantly start making smart ass comments to Dubya and J-Lo about how he "found them out" and "oh, now they're hauling you in". I'm so funny. This is when Mr. Park Ranger approaches and knocks on my window. I unroll it just enough to speak through, thinking for some reason he knows me, or knows Sugar Daddy, or something. He asks me to "step out of the car, ma'am." Uh, okay.

So out I go, still thinking in the back of my mind that this is some sort of practical joke, or that Ashton has finally decided to Punk me. He then asks for my Driver's License and Proof of Insurance. I supply his request as quickly as I could, all the while giving off an air of "okay Ashton, I'm totally on to you". He then proceeds to tell me that he has it on good authority that someone saw me pull in to the parking lot, park, leave, and return a short time later. In that frame of time, someone hit the back of his Police Car, breaking off the attached bike rack. He wants to go ahead and do a paint match test, since he has silver to black paint transfer on the offending piece of broken bike rack. I tell him to go ahead, but I never left the parking lot, I pulled in and stayed the entire hour. Besides, it's freaking Kindermusik, there are approximately 319 minivans in the parking lot, 74 of which are silver*.

He starts trying to match up the bike rack with the various dents and scratches** in my van, none of which really match. Then he asks how far away I live. "Like 5 minutes," I say. "How many vehicles do you own?" he asks. "Three", I say. "So, it would be feasible for you to have hit my car, left the scene, driven home, and returned in a different vehicle?" Hmm. I guess I had never really thought of that. Me being the smart ass that I am, start popping off a little. "Well, considering one of my vehicles is a 1949 blue Chevy truck that doesn't run, that's not an option. And the other one is a lifted Dodge truck, so it would have done a lot more than just a little bike rack damage." I'm so funny. Again. He doesn't think so. Finally, he gets it. I'm not his man. I have witnesses to my whereabouts. There is no evidence. He countenace softens and he proceeds to tell us that now it's a felony hit and run, blah blah blah. At this point, it just barely has hit me that I was pretty dang close to being hauled off to the slammer. Now that would have been a good story.

* I may have embellished that statistic a little.
** There was an incident in which I was trying to back out of the snow covered driveway, across the snow bump the plow leaves. I went for it full force, almost made it, and then hit right into both garbage cans that had been placed right in my blind spot. Whose fault is that? Mine? The snow plow's? Sugar Daddy's? The jury's still out. There are also a few scratches from someone, ahem, not me, backing into the garage and not realizing they weren't pulled in far enough before closing the garage door.