I've decided to write several pieces on unusual situations. The time that I went to Mongolia. The time that I saw Prince William in a Scottish pub. The time that my grandparents took me out west and Grandma spilled soda in Grandpa's lap. The time that I moved three times in four months. The time I ran through an airport in high heels. The time that I sent a card to Kensington Palace. The time that I graduated with a two dollar bill stuck in my bra during the ceremony. The time that I went to the horse races. The time I held a woman whose mother had just died. The time that I helped tear down bathroom walls and said the dreaded word "oops."
The time my husband got arrested.
After staring at grape gum colored walls of a lobby of a jail for about twenty or thirty minutes, they let me ransom my husband out of the can. A sullen looking sergeant with the biggest nostrils I've ever seen accepted the bail (bribe) and finally let me have him back.
John met me wild eyed and shaking and I gave him some peanut butter M&M's, since chocolate helps people who've been around dementors. Azkaban has nothing on that County Detention Center, which, incidentally, has about a dozen awards displayed - for best float in the Christmas parade.
Now, I appreciate our law enforcement officers. They would help me if I was being burgled. But when they arrest a sweet young man for missing a court date for a traffic ticket and an un-updated driver's license, I have to wonder if they're making up for budget cuts. Let's see: meth, pot, gangbangers, illegal immigrants. Yep. Speeding and not getting a new driver's license within thirty days of moving to the state. One step removed from being the Godfather.
So my poor sweet little husband was wild-eyed with fear and despair after three hours in the slammer. After all, he had to pee in a cell with no window, a metal toilet, and security cameras in the corners. And all he had to sit on was a mat on concrete. John has the disposition of a golden retriever - happy, laid back, friendly to everyone. Cellblock 913 is no place for golden retrievers. And John looked like a sad puppy.
And the thing is, I LOOKED like a wife getting her husband out of jail - home sick, and receiving a sudden call, I could've been a guest on Maury or Jerry Springer. At least I didn't puke in the car from the migraine I had - I threw up right before I left home. Purple oatmeal. (There were blueberries.) And do you know how weird it is to have to stop at a gas station and ask for directions to the detention center? "OH, you mean the jailhouse?" was the response. The attendant gave me suspiciously clear, efficient directions. I raised my eyebrow slightly. I'm surprised he didn't say "tell them Daryl said hi."
Well, that's what's going on at our house. I'm on monster antibiotics the size of Yugo's. At least "The Office" starts tonight, and last night we watched "Run, Fat Boy, Run" that I got through my beloved Blockbuster online. Simon Pegg from "Shaun of the Dead" and "Hot Fuzz." Absolutely loved it. Stupid title, but hilarious.
Last night, on discussing the ridiculous first year of marriage it's been, I said, "at least I'm not pregnant," to which he heartily agreed, especially after my addiction to pregnancy tests. You know you're addicted when it's weird not to pee on a stick.
Make sure your old tickets are paid and your drivers license addresses up to date, people.
It's a jungle out there.