The Worst Day of My Life

I know that I was supposed to write my first "Someone I Love" post, but a friend suggested I blog about this first. Since my brain has begun to block out this traumatic day from my memory, it may be a good idea that I tell this story sooner rather than later.

The day would have begun like any other day had I set my alarm correctly. I was supposed to be at my first job at 6:50, but I didn't wake up until 6:20, leaving me far too little time to get ready. I know that everyone hates oversleeping, but my hatred more stems from the fact that on these days, I don't get to take a shower. Let me prove this to you...

                   Perfect example, I took a shower on my wedding day, and see, very happy...                                                                         

                                                                    

 

                                                             

   And this was on a day that I wasn't able to take a shower, very grumpy, I even had to wear a head covering because my hair was so gross...

                                  

Anyway, now that I've proven my point... My morning started out pretty badly. I rushed to my first job, at Hart High School, only to walk in and have everybody glaring at me. At Hart, I accompany for an advanced show choir. Where there is typically beautiful music and laughter, there was instead weeping and tears, all because I was late. This may be exaggerated a little bit, but none the less, the director was not happy with me.

I left Hart, feeling like a failure for ruining the rehearsal - and keep in mind, I was still grumpy from my lack of shower. As I was leaving I realized that I still had a little bit of time before I needed to arrive at my next/real job so I decided to race home and take a shower. My plan soon proved to be easier said than done. It was just one of those days where my hair wouldn't cooperate and none of my clothes fit. After trying on my 32nd outfit, I realized that I was late again!!

I don't even really know what I ended up throwing on, but I ran down to the car and started driving quickly (ok, speeding) to work. Well, I may have been going a little fast, but only like 10 mph over, when I saw those not-so-pretty blue and red lights in my rear view mirror. The only thing I thought to do was immediately reach down and turn on Christian radio. Maybe if the Deputy heard my music, he would pass me by in search of a pagan speeder. It didn't work.

He was after me. I tried my hardest to make myself cry, remembering that my compassionate husband (who is also a cop) hates when girls cry and often lets them go. I bit on my lip, punched myself in the thigh but still could not squeeze out a single tear. So I changed my tactic and pulled out my best "smile with a dimple" that I could. The idea here was that if I could be the most polite and cheerful vehicle code violator in the history of traffic stops, maybe just maybe the Sheriff's Deputy might see fit to let me go with a warning. What can I say, I was desperate. I pulled over and he very slowly took his time walking up to my vehicle. 

Let me interupt this story to tell you that I have so much respect for policemen. My HUSBAND is a cop for goodness sake. I know the ins and outs of their thankless job, and we should all thank them with cookies everyday for keeping us and our streets safe. But... not this cop. He was out for blood.

I think his name was Deputy Shoemaker or something, but to shorten it, we'll just call him, Deputy Poopy-Head-Meanie-Face. After he finally made his way up to my window, he said:

Deputy Poopy-Head- Meanie-Face- "So, LAPD huh? Go figure."

(My husband has equipped the Charger - which I now drive (thanks babe)- with a license plate holder that features a reference to a National Police event that only other police officers would notice and understand. I presume that Deputy Poopy-Head-Meanie-Face understood the reference and simply guessed that LAPD was the agency of the vehicle's owner.)

Sweet & Respectful Me- "Good afternoon sir. I'm so sorry I was speeding, therefore endangering you, myself and others. I throw myself at the mercy of the court, as well as the swift and long-stretching arm of the law."

Deputy Poopy-Head-Meanie-Face- "I don't expect anything different, LAPD and their wives think that the rules don't apply to them. You guys think you can do whatever you want" 

Sweet & Respectful Me- "Um, I don't think that. By the way, you look very professional and neat, Sir. Your badge is really sparkly *smile with dimple*"

Well as you can tell, I was being kind and respectful, he however was not. You would have thought I had murdered his dog or something by the way he was treating me. I know that I can be prone to exaggeration, but I truly had never been treated so rudely by a police officer before! Apparently, there is an unspoken rule that wives of policemen aren't supposed to get tickets from other cops. In this situation, I of course, was in the wrong and deserved the citation. 

I understand the decision is entirely up to the police officer who he does and does not give a warning to. I respect that. My beef was not with the fact that I was issued a citation, after all, I had thoroughly earned it. My only complaint was with the Deputy's comments towards my husband's department and our supposed audaciousness and irreverence for the law (all joking aside, he was extremely mean and inappropriate in the things he said to me. It was all very unnecessary.) 

After Deputy Poopy-Head-Meanie-Face issued me the ticket, I told him to have a great day, and that I appreciate his service, and that I will be praying for him. Once I rolled up my window I immediately burst into tears and called my husband. The conversation sounded something like this...

Pecadillo- "Hello?"

Me- (tears-a-flowin') "Honey...... I.....late....Christian radio.... lights.... poopy ... LAPD....ticket.....waaahh...sorry......waaaaaaaaahhhhh"

Pecadillo- "Um.... are you hurt?"

Me- "No... but... waaaahhh..."

Well once my patient and sympathetic husband decoded what had transpired, he told me not to worry, that these things happen, and that he would call Deputy Shoemaker's (he refused to use my nickname for him) Watch Commander and submit a complaint regarding the unprofessional and rude Sheriff's Deputy's comments. With my husband at my rescue I continued on toward my school. Remember how I had told you that I was late? Well now I was really late and my high schoolers were literally waiting in the classroom for me. 

When I finally pulled into the parking lot, I quickly parked, turned of the engine and opened the rear door to get my bag. I locked the car and quickly slammed the door shut and tried to run/walk away. I was quickly jerked backwards and realized that I was caught on something. I was so annoyed and overwhelmed that, without looking backwards, I yanked myself away from the vehicle only to be jerked backwards again. I turned around expecting to see my bag or a shirt sleeve caught in the door but what I saw was my middle finger caught in the door. This rogue digit had apparently decided on it's own that it didn't want to leave the car and had acted accordingly. 

Being that I was late, full of adrenalin, and not yet feeling the pain of this injury, I tried to pull it out twice before realizing that it wasn't going to budge. In order to release my finger I actually had to unlock the door and open it!!!  I looked at mangled middle finger and thought "thats kinda gross", but I knew that I had to get to my classroom. I took about four or five more steps towards the classroom before the pain sunk in and I fell to my knees in the middle of the school courtyard. 

There were several elementary students who saw me who surely thought I was playing some kind of game. As usual, they began yelling, "Hi Mrs Johnson! Hi! Hi!  Hi Mrs. Johnson! HI HI HI HI HI HIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!" 

I picked myself up from the pavement with my face covered in tears and snot and waved my middle finger at the kids to show them that I was injured. I'm not sure they took it the right way, but at least they stopped yelling at me and quickly ran away. 

I walked into my classroom where my students were obediently and quietly waiting for me. I tried to start my lesson, but I couldn't stop crying. The students kindly suggested that I go to the school nurse, which I eventually did. It was eventually confirmed that my finger was indeed broken. After I called my husband, who had to attempt to understand a whole other set of unintelligable words and wailing, I went home where he gently and kindly took care of me for the rest of the day.

So maybe, the rest of the day was ok, but still, I deserve some sympathy points :)