I fought the law. . .
We are going on vacation very soon, and my husband mentioned the other day that our one car needs to be inspected during the month of May. He then shrugged it off and said, "Well, it can wait until we get back (in June). It’s not like we’re driving that car on vacation." My eyes popped wide open and I yelled, "NO. That car must be inspected before we leave." The memory of what happened a few years ago is still very fresh in my memory.
Fade to four years ago. . .
We bought our car back when Big I was a baby. We bought it new and had it for a few months at the time of the incident. We had two months left before our registration had to be renewed. We were under the wrong assumption that the registration and inspection due dates were one and the same. I was on the way to the store with Big I, heading east on a windy back road. I was going the speed limit. A police car passed me heading west on the road. Several minutes later, the police car is behind me, lights flashing. Because a van had just pulled out in front of me and was speeding by a playground going at least 40 in a 25 mph zone, I promptly pulled off the road to allow him to go around me and go get the guy. To my shock and horror, he pulled up behind me.
The officer walked up to my car window and asked for my registration and license. I was fumbling around trying to find everything to hand to him, wishing I could just work up some tears. I had heard that tears work wonders. Unfortunately for me, tears don’t come on demand.
"Do you know why I pulled you over?" he asked.
"No. I know it wasn’t because I was speeding though, because I wasn’t."
"No, you weren’t," he responded. "Your inspection sticker is expired."
"My what?" I looked at him baffled.
He tapped the window and repeated himself. I remember saying something about how I didn’t know and that it wasn’t yet time for our inspection because I was falsely thinking that both the registration and inspection were due at the same time. I may have said, "My husband takes care of these things." He wasn’t impressed.
He walked back to his car with my license and called it in. I sat there shaking. I had never once been pulled over in my life. Not when I was a stupid teenager driving way too fast so I would make it home by curfew (Don’t fret now Mom. I’m grown and I’m alive and well). I wasn’t even cited in the one car accident I was in where I accidentally rear-ended a car when it slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting a cop who was in the middle of the street, at night, painting lines on the road. Idiot. So, I wasn’t familiar with how this drill went down. I was getting more upset by the second.
The officer walked back to me, handed me back my license and registration and then handed me a ticket for $90.
"$90??? You can’t just give me a warning? I have never been pulled over in my life. I am driving a BRAND NEW CAR. I’ll go get the car inspected TODAY. It’s not like I was putting anyone in danger or anything."
"I can’t do that," he said smugly. He walked back to his car. I wasn’t shaking anymore because I was upset. Now I was fuming mad. I’m not the type to cry; I get ticked off instead. Unfortunately, that’s not good for the whole "getting a warning" thing.
I drove home, and then went straight to a Jiffy Lube to have the car inspected immediately. I ranted to my parents, husband and anyone else who would listen about it. Sure, I was in the wrong; but did he have to be such a jerk? I was driving a brand new car. . . a stay at home Mom with a baby in the backseat. I mean, weren’t there some criminals more worthy of his time? I decided to fight the ticket. I figured that my pre-law major for the first year of college would get me through it. I spent the weeks before the trial getting ready.
When my trial date came, I had a babysitter and showed up for court. For some reason, they had to reschedule me for the following week. I couldn’t get a babysitter this time, so Big I had to come with me. She was only a little over a year old at the time. I was already ticked off that my I had to bring my child along because they were too stupid to be prepared on the day of my court date.
So, I showed up for court armed with my Jiffy Lube inspection receipt and my clean driving record thinking that I would have absolutely no problem getting rid of this $90 charge. I had to wait a good hour to get called in and by then, Big I had fallen asleep on my shoulder. The court clerk finally called my name.
The Judge began the proceedings and my friendly non-warning-friendly cop was there. He took the stand first. Armed with his police report he stated that I had been driving east on the road and that he had pulled me over, blah, blah, blah. He finished his testimony and started to get down from the stand. The Judge took a cursory glance at me and asked if I’d like to cross examine the witness. I think he was a little shocked when I said yes. So was the officer as he sat back down.
Me: "Officer, can you tell me which direction I was driving in when you saw my expired inspection ticket?"
Officer: consults notes, says smugly "East."
Me: "In which direction were you traveling?"
Officer: rolls eyes "West."
Me: "Was I going the speed limit when you saw me?"
Officer: "I think so. Yes."
Me: "Well to clarify, yes, I was. After you saw my expired sticker, how much farther did you have to drive in order to turn around to head back east in my direction?"
Officer: getting flustered "I’m not sure."
Me: "Well, judging from where I was when I saw you, you had to at least travel a distance of about three blocks, before pulling off and turning back around, pulling out and heading east after me. Would you say that’s a fair estimate?"
Officer: "Yes."
Me: "So, in order for you to catch up to me, you would have had to go above the speed limit. You would have had to speed. Is that correct?"
Officer: stumbles around his words, "Well, um… "
Me: "Yes or no, officer. It’s a simple question. In order to catch up with me, would you have had to speed?"
Officer: ears flaming red "Well, yes."
At this point, the judge clears his throat because he is trying not to laugh. The cop is looking at me with complete and utter disbelief. He so did not see this coming.
Me: "When you pulled me over, were you aware of the van that had pulled out in front of me? The van that was speeding by a playground?"
Officer: "No."
Me: "Well, for the record, there was a van that was speeding in front of me. In fact, I pulled off the road so quickly because I thought you were going to go after the van. Officer, my question for you is this: In your professional opinion, who is more likely to cause harm to society, a van speeding by a playground or a stay-at-home-mom driving the speed limit in a brand new car who forgot to get her car inspected?"
Officer: extremely flustered "Well, it depends. . . "
Me: "Officer, let’s be honest here. Who truly is likely to cause more harm: someone speeding by a playground or someone driving a new car whose inspection sticker is expired by a week? Who can potentially cause more harm? It’s a simple question that requires a simple answer."
Officer: grumbles "The person speeding."
Me: "Really, Officer? So, in other words, you and the van in front of me were more likely to cause harm than I was on that day?"
Officer: "Well, it depends. If you’re driving an unsafe car. . . "
Me: "But the car was brand new, was it not?"
Officer: "It was." hangs head
Me: "So, it’s not like I was driving a lemon or anything right? It’s not like my car was likely to lose a wheel or fall apart and cause harm?"
Officer: Face now matches ears in their fiery redness. Sighs tiredly.
Me: "I have one last question for you officer. What type of ticket brings more revenue into your township: an expired inspection ticket or a speeding ticket?"
Officer: stutters, sputters, grasps at straws, "That doesn’t matter. . . "
Me: "But it does. Answer the question please. What ticket brings in more revenue?"
Officer: grumbles quietly "Inspection ticket."
Me: "So, in other words, bringing revenue in to the township is more important than catching people who might do harm to people?"
Officer: defeated, sighs.
Me: "I have no further questions."
I then presented my evidence: my Jiffy Lube receipt and asked the judge for a warning. I testified to my extremely clean driving record. I was holding my baby in my arms, sleeping on my shoulder during this whole ordeal. I mean, For God’s sake, have a heart already. I need $90 worth of diapers, not stupid tickets.
The officer called me to the stand and only asked me one question. He asked me whether or not my inspection sticker was indeed expired. Well, duh.
The judge thought an entire 10 seconds before he handed down the verdict of Guilty. Apparently, beating up the officer verbally had been the only reprieve I was going to get.
My jaw dropped and I stood up and started yelling. I told the officer and the judge that I didn’t even know why I bothered to come fight it. I told them they were pathetic for not giving someone with a perfectly clean driving record a warning. I then left the court room, and told the entire waiting room to not bother wasting their time and to go the hell home instead. I told them they’d have better luck telling their argument to a wall. I wrote my check for $90 and stormed out of there.
Needless to say, the car will be inspected in May.
Forget Mommy Wars; I’ve got a new cause
"Mommy Wars" have been popping up everywhere lately. Here, here, and here are just a few of the people who are talking about it. If you don’t feel like clicking on all of the links, I’ll just summarize for you. They’re mostly saying let’s stop talking about it because frankly, it’s getting pretty old. Amalah had a virtual fist fight going in her comments section the other day about them. You can even go here to find a link to a petition to call a cease fire in the Mommy Wars. (Go sign, but come right back.)
The problem seems to be simple, at least for the Mommy Wars in the blogging world. For the most part, working Mom’s who get upset and offended are reading into what Stay at Home Mom’s are saying and vice versa. Of course, there are some really rude people out there; but the majority of women out there mean no one else any harm by what they say. I’m going to say one last thing about it, and then I’m moving on. If you are a mother, repeat after me: Whatever I choose to do with my life in regards to my children is my business and mine alone.
Every mother will always think that her decision is the best and wisest one. There will even be some who try to push their views on other people. There are MANY who will read or hear something completely neutral; and because they have made the opposite choice and are feeling insecure about their decision, will feel the need to berate a perfectly well-meaning person who meant absolutely nothing derogatory in her statement. This, unfortunately, is what a lot of women do. This is the reason why for the longest time my best friends were always guys. They lack the catty gene. It’s a good thing. I am NOT a catty person; and I don’t really get along with people who are. My female friends whom I hold near and dear are very much like me when it comes to the whole anti-cattiness thing (if that’s even a word.)
So, I’d like to declare a new war. . . one that all mothers: working at home, stay at home, working out of the home can agree on and relate to completely. It is the cause to unite all mothers under one collective motherly roof. . . against those who believe that all baby girls are born with braids, and all baby boys are born with buzz cuts. Let me explain.
The other day I took my daughters out to a store with me. Lil C, who is 6 months old, was wearing: a short sleeved lavender silk sweater, white boot cut pants with little purple flowers on them, and a white lacy bib. As I was checking out, an older woman came over and started talking to Lil C. Our conversation went like this:
Older woman: "A boy, huh?" (and nods in Lil C’s direction.)
Me: (Sighs disgustedly and forcibly looks at Lil C’s extremely GIRLY outfit and then at woman. Thinks in head, "Yeah, because everyone I know dresses little boys in lace bibs and purple flowers. Also, silk is the new denim, and by the way, you’re an idiot," but actually I say. . . ) Girl (with a terse eye roll).
Older woman: (as if she’s offended) "Well, where’s its hair?"
Me: (Thinks in head, "Yeah, because every female baby I know is born with freaking pony tails LADY, and actually THIS BABY is not an IT!!!!!!!! She is my beautiful baby girl and she has PLENTY of hair." But what I actually do is. . .) Glare at woman and walk away.
The same thing happened when Big I was about Lil C’s age. We were in a grocery store. She was wearing a pale yellow sun-suit with pink and purple flowers on it. An older lady said, "A boy?" and I had to restrain myself. It seriously gets under my skin. Why are all babies boys? I mean, I know that some people (o.k., I admit it, I) always call dogs or cats by one gender in particular. But that’s a whole lot less obvious. It’s not polite to look between the legs of anything, including a dog or cat; and it doesn’t count because animals don’t wear clothing (unless of course, we’re talking about Paris Hilton’s dog and then it’s probably pretty obvious what the gender is anyway). Later that night I told my husband what happened and how annoyed I was. He had a good solution for me. It goes something like this:
Older woman: "A boy, huh?"
Me: "Girl, sir."
It goes like this if the offender is male:
Man: "A boy, huh?"
Me: "Girl, ma’am."
I am so using this next time. So, this brilliant husband of mine goes along to karate tonight. We were working on sparring. I was working with my instructor and Big I was working with a 9-year old girl who has a very unisex haircut. To his credit, she also had a helmet on at the time; and he wasn’t present during the beginning of class when this girl was talking a lot, obviously a girl. As Big I stood there refusing to make a move, my husband encouraged her by saying, "Go ahead; punch, hit, you won’t hurt him." The girls mother was sitting next to him and offered a simple, "Her." Now, I can’t blame my husband here. Anyone could have make this mistake.
But with a baby, it’s a lot easier to tell. Even when you can’t, there are easy ways to find out. When I’ve been in a situation where you just simply can’t tell, I’ll say something like, "Aww, how old is your baby?" The mother will usually respond with, "He’s 6 months old," or "She’s 6 months old." The door is now wide open for you to say, "Well, she’s adorable." You didn’t know, but you found out without making the mother want to drop you in the aisle at Wal-Mart.
Here are some other clues that the baby you’re inquiring about just might be a girl:
- She’s wearing pink or lavender.
- She’s wearing a floral bib that says, "Thank Heaven for Little Girls" (Seriously, I had someone ask me if she was a boy while wearing this bib.)
- There is lace on any part of her body: socks, bib, hat, etc.
- She’s wearing a swimsuit, not trunks. Honesty, I had someone ask me if Lil C was a boy while wearing this:
It has a ruffle PEOPLE! A RUFFLE! There’s another one:
- Boys don’t wear ruffles. If the baby has a ruffle on socks, pants, shirt, swimsuit, dress. . . the baby is a girl.
- It may seem obvious, but if the baby is wearing a dress, the baby is a GIRL!!!!
So, are you with me Mommy’s? I’m sure it is equally annoying when someone identifies a baby boy as a girl. So, let’s all bond together with a common disgust for those who cannot tell the gender of our babies, against those who refuse to find out in any polite sort of way. Mommy Wars are exhausting: this whole gender war thing could be a whole lot more fun!
Duke rape case hits raw nerve
I graduated from the University of Pittsburgh. During my sophomore year, I became a P.E.E.R. Educator (Peer Educators for an Environment free of Rape and Sexual Exploitation) through Sexual Assault Services which is housed in the counseling center. I also worked in the Sexual Assault Services office as a coordinator of the P.E.E.R. educators in my junior and senior years. P.E.E.R.’s presented materials designed at educating students about sexual assault. We did our presentations for the football team (nightmare), fraternities, sororities, freshman classes, etc. Once, I even taught a month long "seminar" on sexual harassment for three badly behaved boys who went around freshman dorms ripping open shower curtains of unsuspecting female students and snapping pictures. Nice. I loved what I did there and felt like I was really helping students. What I could never understand though, was why our counseling offices were full of appointments with former rape victims, yet our campus security stats were always wonderful. It didn’t jive and I imagine that many universities have such a dirty little secret.
While I was a student at Pitt, there was a gang rape at a fraternity party. The girl was a freshman and it was early in the first semester. The rape happened in a bathroom and the girl was devastated. She had had too much to drink, no friends who watched out for her, and one thing led to another. The case rocked the university paper and that’s all anyone really talked about. The fraternity was a large one and had at least 60 members at the time. Every single one of those guys knew who did what, yet each one of them kept their solemn brotherly vow and not a one would speak up and make right what a handful of them had done. The university did nothing. They didn’t revoke their charter or suspend them from school. They only disallowed them from accepting pledges during the spring semester. Big freaking deal. The freshman student tried to stick it out at the school, but she was too much of a wreck and eventually quit college altogether. The counselor I worked for at Sexual Assault Services had tried to counsel and help her, but she was a broken woman. She had the guts to come forward, a freshman against an entire well known fraternity, and she was rewarded with nothing but harassment and disbelief. I often wonder about those boys and whether or not they can sleep at night. I wonder about whether or not they are now married with children, daughters perhaps. I wonder about how they must feel about what they did to that poor woman, whether they were part of the rape or part of the zipped lips.
Because of this, the Duke rape case is driving me absolutely insane. You have a well known school, a sports team mentality, and a stripper’s word against a band of "brothers." These are the things that are annoying me:
- Just because she was intoxicated doesn’t mean a rape did not occur. Most sexual assaults occur when the victim, the assailant(s) or both are intoxicated. This does not make her any less credible.
- DNA evidence is not required to show that a rape occurred. (Please don’t even make me explain the "anatomy" of this one.)
- The fact that the second stripper says it happened or that it didn’t happen, or that she believes it could have or could not have happened MEANS NOTHING. She was not in the bathroom. She does not know. The fact that she thinks it may or may not have happened is NOT evidence.
- Why would the alleged victim make this up? What does she have to gain? The Duke lacrosse team and/or it’s members are not celebrities. There is absolutely NO upside to reporting a rape. Rape shield laws are complete crap these days. No one adheres to them in court. Reporting a rape of this magnitude makes you nothing more than a target. This is why the vast majority of rapes are not reported. Rape victims are forced to relive what’s happened to them over and over and over and over again.
- This has NOTHING to do with race. This is about a woman who was violated. It does not matter what color she is, or what color her attackers are. It’s wrong any way you slice it.
- Strippers are not "asking for it." Would I be a stripper? Never. I’d rather live out of a cardboard box and eat scraps on a street before I would take off my clothing for cash. But, some women strip for money. It does not mean they are asking to be raped. It seems to me, they’re trying to make a living and there are a lot of men out there who are more than happy to pay for it.
I feel it’s only appropriate for me to add here that the only thing worse than a group of guys sticking together and not saying a word about what they’ve done, is a "victim" who makes up the crime. As Jim Hines states in his article:
"It happens. It’s a legitimate fear. But it’s not one I’ve got a lot of sympathy for. Not compared to the people who lived every night in fear that their father, mother, or some other relative would come in and molest them. Not compared to the women who struggled through fear, violation, and helplessness after a boy they trusted turned out to be a rapist. Not compared to the vast number of men and women who did speak out about their victimization, only to be labeled liars and sluts."
I strongly encourage you to spend some time looking around on his site.
The things that are encouraging about this case are that the students involved have been suspended, the coach is gone, and the University President actually had the guts to disallow them from playing any more games this year until this situation is resolved. For that, I am happy. Duke did more than a lot of schools do when faced with a similar situation.
I am dreading the outcome though, as I watch this case being played out in the media: lawyers dropping bits of information designed to prejudice a potential jury, lacrosse players and their parents lawyering up and zipping their lips, fellow strippers coming out to catch their 15 minutes of fame no matter what damage they may be doing to themselves, their friend, or women in general. It all makes me sick. I wish I was bringing my girls up in a world where I didn’t have to worry about what will happen to them when they’re in college, where they didn’t have to view every man as a potential problem before finally being able to trust him, where I could be sure that young men are being brought up right, to respect and cherish the women who will be in their lives. But unfortunately, it’s just not that way and giving birth to daughters, for me, means a lifetime of worrying.
For follow-up on this story, go here.
Shred THIS
You know how they have those MasterCard "priceless" commercials? Here is mine:
Haircut for daughter so she can look groomed for her Easter pictures . . . $13.00
White sandals to go with Easter outfit. . . $49.00 (Shut-up, I know. Her feet have "champagne taste" and nothing fits her right except for expensive shoes.)
Picture session with both a 5-year old and a 6-month old smiling at the same time while looking at the same camera, which requires extensive acrobatics by both parents and a Mom-Mom. . . $122.00
Coming home to have a cold beer. . . priceless.
Before you call Child Services. . . she only grabbed the bottle. She did not imbibe.
If you have ever been to The Picture People, you know what I’m talking about. I have a love/hate relationship with them. I LOVE that I can see the pictures and get them in an hour. I love that they have a plain white background without all the cheesy fake looking window like props like some places.
But, there are some things that absolutely drive me insane. First of all, what is up with the hard slippery floors? Each studio I have been to has hard pergo or something like it floors. This does not make for a friendly environment for babies who are not very steady. Why can’t they put a couple squares of that foam padding down or something? I realize it’s easier to clean up at the end of the night with hard floors, but don’t they realize that their clients’ kids have fragile noggins? Would it kill them to have a couple foam squares in the joint?
My husband and I are forever traumatized by what happened to Big I when she was a baby. We were getting her Christmas pictures taken and she was about 9 months old. They brought out this adorable little upholstered chair and scooted a Christmas tree up beside it. What a great setting for a picture right? Yeah, except for the fact that Big I, while sitting in the chair, got so excited about the feather duster coming at her that she bounced and threw her body forward so quickly and so awkwardly that she fell smack onto her face on the hard floor. The image of it still makes me physically sick. I practically knocked over the camera to get to her. (My husband was kneeling right near her but couldn’t grab her in time to break her fall.) She didn’t even cry right away which was terrifying, and then. . . the crying. Oh MY GOD, the crying. It erupted along with a red face and I immediately told them we were done as I stomped into the mall with my traumatized child. I took her to the car and nursed her while she sobbed that terrible sob that everyone has done at least once in their life, but usually only after being dumped by some stupid junior high boyfriend. My husband and I took turns, once she had calmed down, pushing on her delicate little facial bones and making her say things to make sure she was o.k. When all was said and done, she was smiling and perfectly fine other than a small bruise on her cheek. But, it was terrifying. The picture of the event was snapped on the upward bounce before the downward descent to meet the hard floor. It’s a great picture, but whenever my husband and I see it, it brings on a bit of nausea. Those damn hard floors!
So tonight when they wanted to sit Lil C on the hard floor by herself. . . NO, so not happening. I think our photographer was a bit taken aback by the sheer gusto of the NO that met her suggestion simultaneously by both my husband and me. So, instead they sat her in a beanbag chair that she quickly became adept at catapulting herself out of and into our waiting arms because my husband and I. . . We’re not going through that ever again. Why can’t they have more baby friendly props and settings? It really REALLY irritates me.
Secondly, anyone who has ever been to the Picture People knows it is not cheap. My husband always rolls his eyes and becomes sort of twitchy on Picture People days because he knows that the budget for the month is about to be completely blown to hell. And, he’s usually right. Why? Because, you tell me what mother on the face of this earth can look at a picture of her child and say, "No, I don’t want that one. You take it and put it into the shredder and then the Dumpster and then the land fill." It’s always physically painful for me to choose which pictures I want because even a bad picture usually has something cute or funny about it. Why can’t they do something like my wedding photographer did? Once you spend x amount on pictures, the proofs that they print out are yours to keep? Would that be so hard? Would it be so awful? Wouldn’t it endear customers to them more and help them make more money? They’d spend less on shredders; that’s for sure!
Once I took my daughter to The Picture People at a different mall and I had this wonderful check out girl who printed all the pictures I wanted, and then (when no one was looking) slipped all the other ones I didn’t want into the folder with a brief glance at me as if to say, "Don’t question it. Just go with it. It’s all cool, lady." I loved that woman. I seriously wanted to hug her but I knew that would definitely give her away. I nodded a cool nod at her and then went out to the mall seating to admire my gift. It was so nice that I went back to that mall that is an hour away from my house again, but she wasn’t there. They probably found out about her and sent her through the shredder too, like all the adorable pictures that meet the same fate each day and night.
I wrote The Picture People’s corporate office and told them about my issues after Big I had her close encounter with their floor; but I never got a response back. I’m sure that my letter probably had an encounter with the shredder as well.
Butt Flinging “Ash Holes”
I’ve inherited many things from my dad: my nose, my temper, my perfectionist attitude. I’ve also inherited his disgust for litterbugs. I CAN NOT STAND when someone throws trash from their car. It drives me absolutely insane to see trash on the side of the road, in the parking lot, and especially in my yard. The litter item that takes the cake as far as maddening to me. . . cigarette butts. Nothing quite burns me up like littered cigarette butts. They are NOT biodegradable. When left outside, they can be picked up by babies and children, eaten by dogs and other animals, etc. It is just plain nasty and it seriously ticks me off. I especially hate litterbugs at the beach who treat the sand as a public ash tray.
Last year, we went to Pensacola Beach for a few days and were enjoying a beautiful afternoon on the beach. My husband was wading out in the water and Big I and I were hanging out on the beach. 
Big I started to tell me that her stomach hurt, but I was completely distracted as I watched a woman standing nearby smoking a cigarette and polluting the air around me. Normally, the smell of a cigarette will make me sick; but I was at the end of my first trimester so the smell was completely disgusting and I was seriously pissed that this woman was standing in my air. As I was trying to avoid the stream of nastiness, she flicked her cigarette onto the sand. She didn’t even bother to cover it up. The water was lapping at the butt, and I was fixated, infuriated and ready to burst. I composed a tirade in my head. It went something like this: "Would you mind picking up your cigarette and disposing of it in a more appropriate place?" If she gave me a problem, I was prepared to go off something like this, "This beach is not your personal ash tray. There are young children playing only feet away from you! Pick up your cigarette butt now before I pick it up and shove it down your throat!" (Anyone who knows me at all knows that I have what I lovingly refer to as "action plans" for certain situations, and I was fully prepared to put this one into motion.) Big I played a few feet behind me in the sand as I took a step toward the woman and started to open my mouth. Just then, the woman’s husband says to me, "Is that your kid?" as he points to Big I. I don’t even look because I know she’s right behind me and then he says, "She’s pukin’". She’s WHAT????
I turn around and there is Big I, projectile vomiting onto the sand. Now puke is disgusting any way it comes, but imagine a breakfast that includes pineapple and chocolate milk and you’ve got a first trimester mama about to join her little one in the regurgitation activities. The only thing I could think to do was run over to her, take one of her sand toys and start burying it in the sand. I mean, what else could I do? I scooped her up, turned towards Mr. B and started waving wildly as he was pretty far out in the gulf on a sand bar. I took one last cursory glance at the cigarette lady and thought, "How can I possibly say anything to her about her cigarette butt when my daughter just desecrated the beach with puke?" So, I shot her an awkward look, nodded a firm thanks towards her husband and marched our butts down the beach as the water lapped up the cigarette for some hungry fish to choke on.
Later, when I relayed the story to my husband he said I should have carried on with my critique of her disposal methods. Puke is 100% biodegradable. . .cigarette butts are most certainly not.
So, I got very excited last year when my dad informed me about a program in our state and several others to combat litter bugs. The concept is simple: see a person littering out of their car and record their car make/model, license, description of person, location and time of incident and report them. They get a nice warning letter letting them know that a caught litter bug pays a $300 fine, along with a litter bug bag for their car. It’s not much, but it does make me feel incredibly good when I call and report someone. If I could figure out how to work my cell phone camera, it would be even better. Instead, you’ll find me trying not to swerve on and off the road as I try to scribble a license number and all the other information necessary, usually with an eye or lip liner on a receipt for shoes or groceries.
I’m not a tree hugger; I don’t bleed green. I don’t even have a problem with smokers. But if you’re going to smoke, please do me the courtesy of not doing it in my air space (or especially in the vicinity of my kids); and throw your butt away! And when all is said and done, it does give me a good feeling knowing that the punky blonde littering teenager whose parents probably don’t even know she smokes, are going to get a letter saying that someone with her description was seen tossing a cigarette butt out their car window. If you’d like to make some teenager’s day, you can report litter bugs too at http://www.litterbutt.com. You’ll make your day and mine!
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