happy Saint Birthday.

the wreck. a photo by Luna Soledad on Flickr.

Kevin is a Saint Patrick's day baby and as is customary, we must have his birthday lunch at an Irish pub, so we closed the office for a leisurely couple of hours to try out a new spot that had just opened near by just in time for the mad Irish rush...

Ballymor Irish Pub sounded great, mouth-watering even, on the web and I suppose to be fair, I'll have to visit another day when they're offering more than their holiday menu of three whole items served in fine paper Chinet with plastic cutlery before completely dissin' them.

En route back to the office on Six Forks Road, traffic had come to a complete halt... I was just beginning to wonder if there was a wreck up ahead when I heard the screeching of tires seconds before being slammed into the driver's seat in front of me. Holy hell... there goes my back again.

Poor Partner Esq. (previously known as The Associate Esq.) -- we always make him drive when we go out as he is childless at present and therefore has the cleanest and roomiest vehicle. And apparently also the safer of the two vehicles involved in the rear-end collision as the car which struck us was pretty much totaled while the Explorer maintained its dignity with only some bumper scuffing and the dislodging of the spare tire beneath the rear end.

The other younger fellow was shaken up of course but very nice and apologetic. We all waited together while Raleigh's finest did their thing and the wrecker arrived hauling off the other vehicle. The fellow began chatting casually with the guys asking where we worked...

The Husband, Esq. gave a little chuckle and simply replied, "Just right down the street."

"What do you do?" he inquired.

The Husband, Esq. and The Partner, Esq. exchanged comical glances before The Husband, Esq. said, "We're attorneys."

"Oh nice," the now carless driver says, "I just hit two lawyers."

The look on his face was priceless. (No one bothered to tell him that it was The Husband, Esq.'s birthday too and The Partner, Esq. was now running late for court...)

An hour or so later, my back is already on fire and seizing up on me so I dip into my emergency stash of pain relief while trying to score a last minute chiropractic appointment. As a result, The Husband, Esq. is charged with picking up Liam from daycare... only to phone me 20 minutes later to inform me that he had gotten a ticket for expired inspection. Oh yay.

I asked him if he mentioned to the cop that he'd already been involved in an accident. No, he said, but he did ask the officer why he hadn't wished him a happy birthday... the cop smiled sheepishly and told him he hoped his day got better.

So probably NOT Kevin's happiest birthday, but definitely one of his most memorable. Love you anyway babe!

Such is life...

"The return of my birthday, if I remember it, fills me with thoughts which it seems to be the general care of humanity to escape."

...Samuel Johnson

life is an autobahn.

This weekend was supposed to be my desperately needed Girl's Weekend, though not only is 'Law a jealous mistress,' she's also a trifling bitch who stacked this week's calendar for The Husband, Esq. with, among other festivities, a 2-day trial and 2-day mediation which meant either I gave up my Girl's Weekend or find myself a new job and a new place to live (read = hide) 'cause when The Husband, Esq. shifts into Trial Mode, well -- remember the Incredible Hulk Series when, in just about every episode, somebody would start some shit and David Banner would say, "You wouldn't like me when I'm angry." -- he doesn't turn green or anything, but my usually easy-going, joke-cracking, wise-guy hubby turns into a hyper-focused, ultra-competitive Pitt bull who is anything but fun to be around... SO, I packed up the offspring and headed to Virginia to play single-mom with my sister and left the hubs at the mercy of his Mistress...

His famous last words to me: "Don't get in trouble and if you do, make sure it's in North Carolina so it won't cost me as much." Doh, JINX!

Fast forward to Sunday's return trip back to Raleighwood...

On the NC border, Virginia State Route 85 is a nice easy stretch of divided highway cutting through miles of beautiful woods and farmland; not a bad drive at all really. Except for the numerous "Official Use Only" cut-thru / turn-arounds spaced every mile or two or three that just kind-of sneak up on you when you're barreling ass down the road. Sometimes with a car parked up in there. Sometimes the car parked up in there has little lights up on top, blue ones... like the one that pulled me over in Dinwiddie.

Once upon a time as a Criminal Justice student at WTCC, I incidentally discovered that having a stash of Criminal Law books in the front seat was a helpful gimmick for avoiding traffic tickets. Especially since, back then, most any badge carrying law enforcement professional in the greater North Carolina triangle area had studied under the much beloved Bob Decatsye and Mickey Williamson at one time or another. One peek in my window would strike a conversation about school on to, "How's ole Deke?" and end with a quick lecture on slowing it down and wishing me luck. Hell, it worked so well that long after I had left my studies to provide for myself, I kept a text book or two in the car for just such occasions... ahhh, those were the days...

As soon as I saw the Virginia State Police Officer sitting there in that little turn as I whizzed right on by in the bright red Jeep, I knew he had me so I went ahead and eased into the right lane and waited for him to catch up. Dammit! I thought. Great, I'm never gonna hear the end of it. I thought. Oh shit! What's the gun law in Virginia? I thought.

I dug my .38 out and placed it in plain view on the front passenger's seat in between my purse, camera, scratched CD's, miscellaneous junk, and kiddie provisions and prepared for the worst.

Hands on the steering wheel squarely at 10 and 2, I announced as the officer reached the driver's window, "I have a loaded pistol in the car."

"Is it registered to you?" he inquired without batting an eye.

"Yes sir."

"Not a problem," he said, "but ma'am, you were going 85 mph, and that's a problem."

He peeked in the car at the kids in the back seat at Isabel who smiled and waved and Liam, completely passed out, drooling on his seat belt. Too bad, he would have been much more excited about the encounter than I was.

The officer returned handing me my driver's license and the traffic citation for 85 in a 70 zone and proceeded to give me the court spiel and share with me tales of his last stop of two guys doing 90 mph who wanted to argue with him on the side of the highway, "I told him, 'Man I am not the person you need to be arguing with because you're gonna lose.'" --Yeah, I could tell that about him.

"Well," I said, "I know better, my husband is an attorney. Unfortunately, not licensed to practice in the state of Virginia though."

"I bet he's got some friends up here who can help you out," he offered.

"If he doesn't, he's about to be making one."

"A successful lawsuit is the one worn by a policeman."

...Robert Frost

(un)professionalism.

attack., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

pro·fes·sion·al·ism
–noun
1. professional character, spirit, or methods.
2. the standing, practice, or methods of a professional, as distinguished from an amateur.

So recently, The Husband, Esq., had a Equitable Distribution mediation in yet another tedious, though not exceptionally complex, domestic matter... or at least it shouldn't have been all that complicated as The Husband, Esq. had figured on settling the remaining issues in around 3 hours considering that a threesome of experienced, heavy-hitter legal professionals were allegedly working toward a common goal: getting the parties to agree on stuff within the confines of the law.

A mediation, for those who don't know, is a costly process whereby the two parties involved in the matter come together with their attorneys in a common location (though in separate rooms) and a neutral third party attorney 'mediates' (between the parties' rooms) through their respective counsels in attempts to reach an agreement in what is basically a last ditch effort to avoid an even more costly court trial.

The specifics of the matter are mute in this story even if I could tell it; what is important to know is that there's a certain amount of ethics that go into how attorney's behave themselves and rules of conduct and such, like not directly speaking to nor contacting the Opposing Party who you know to be represented by counsel absent of the courtroom and only while they are on the stand. (For Pro Se parties, that is another matter entirely because then you are your own counsel... and we've all heard the phrase, "...fool for a client.") And of course, it goes without saying that as a professional, one is expected to conduct oneself as a professional, play nice, use good manners, and all the other life lessons learned in preschool.

The anticipated 3 hour mediation began around 9-ish... and ended approximately NINE hours later. Hardly a record, but, well, you can imagine the frustration and irritation after spending an entire day arguing with no real break to speak of, not to mention, the heightened emotional state of the parties.

It was near this time of day that the Opposing Counsel was inexplicably compelled to stick her head into The Husband, Esq.'s conference room to fuel the fire and verbally slight The Husband, Esq.'s client. WTF? (Anyone who knows The Husband, Esq. should know that challenge and confrontation doesn't end well.) After a brief exchange, The Husband, Esq. tells her to GET OUT.

Not one to be told what to do, the Opposing Counsel appears yet again in the conference room of The Husband, Esq. with more copies of more last minute changes and revisions that had not been on the table for discussion and commences to pass them out between The Husband, Esq. and his client. Words are exchanged loudly and she is told again to GET OUT.

(Here's the good part...)

At this point, having nothing left in her professional arsenal of assault, this 50-ish Doctor of Jurisprudence / Opposing Counsel resorts to hunching over and waiving her arms and hands wildly about in a creepy spell-casting fashion, not dissimilar to a 12 year old bully mimicking the legendary boogie-man, and in a juvenile taunt exclaims, "Oooooh, Keviiin's getttinnng maaaad!" while backing out of the room like a lunatic... leaving The Husband, Esq. sitting there with his mouth hanging open, utterly dumbfounded and speechless. --A rarity indeed.

Again, W.T.F.? Really???

The good news is that in spite of the antics, the parties somehow managed to settle and The Husband, Esq. had a jolly good time reenacting the episode for his darling wife that evening and his staff the next day.

Of course, my personal fun in all this was coming up with a list of appropriate come-backs:

1. "I know I am but what are you?" (submitted by Alvin)
2. "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me."
3. In a Jack Nicholson impression from the classic movie, 'A Few Good Men,' "You can't handle the truth!"
4. "I'm tellin'." (again, Alvin) ...and when all else fails there's always,
5. Placing one's thumbs in each ear while waving fingers and sticking out one's tongue.

Just another fun-filled adventure from your friendly neighborhood law office! ;-)

"No letters after your name are ever going to be a total guarantee of competence any more than they are a guarantee against fraud. Improving competence involves continuing professional development ... That is the really crucial thing, not just passing an examination."

...Colette Bowe

happy 84.

a lifetime of love., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

Today is my Grandma's 84th birthday.

She has certainly seen better days. Visiting her now is always bittersweet for me as the essence of the wonder-woman I grew up with has all but moved on waiting patiently for her soul to follow...

She's tired, I know this, and is winding down. Her health is failing and her appetite gone. It's hard to convince her to eat anything especially when she's quick to argue about the big breakfast she just cooked and how she can't eat another bite, even though it's 6pm and she hasn't been in front of a stove in years.

She sleeps a lot these days, making up for all that she's missed in her long lifetime I suppose, but a couple of weeks ago she fell into a deep, sound sleep giving quite a fright to all who love her. When she finally woke in the evening, she indicated to my aunt that she was fine and had spent the day talking with the Lord. The Lord told her that soon he would heal her and take her home; she said that was fine by her.

That is so Grandma.

Grandma has always had a strong faith in God though she rarely went to church. Her church was the outdoors, her gardens, her flowers, the wilderness, and wildlife. I believe Grandma knows the truth. I also believe that her truth is one of many.

She died once, many years ago on the operating table during a procedure. She told me of how she watched from above all the commotion as doctors and nurses scurried frantically about her body in attempts to revive her. Like so many others have recounted of near death experiences, she saw the "tunnel of lights" and felt completely at peace, ready for the journey. She saw a hand move away from her and understood that it was not her time... She awoke later in the hospital with vivid memories of her encounter.

When I was young, Grandma and I had many conversations about death and dying and God and what we thought happened next. We made a promise to each other that whoever went first would try our best to come back and let the other know we got there okay.

I don't know how I will ever face it, but I know that time is coming.

Kevin, the kids and I went to see her recently and took some of her favorite foods in hopes that she would eat: pimento cheese (yuk!), fresh strawberries, applesauce, and a couple of new things to try - blackberry flavored water and a Starbucks coffee.

Grandma always loved her coffee and sweet tea (the mother's milk of the south). After more than eight decades, I decided it was high-time she had her first Starbucks. So I took her one: a sugar-free 1/2 decaf. Cinnamon Dolce with whole milk.

Each time she tasted it, she said it was downright delicious. She ate a quarter of a pimiento cheese sandwich before telling me again about her big breakfast. She tried the blackberry flavored water and told me how she could make it taste much better because it wasn't sweet enough, "All you gotta do is stew some fresh blackberries with a cup or two of sugar..." she said, which kinda defeats the purpose when you're diabetic but I'm sure she was right. After a slice or two of strawberries, she began trying to feed the children, who were happy to eat Grandma's strawberries and Grandma was happy to see the children eat them.

"Okay Grandma, how about you have the applesauce and Liam will eat the strawberries, he hasn't been eating well."

I turned to my son, "Tell you what, for every bite of applesauce Grandma eats, you have to eat a strawberry," I said as I was cutting the berry halves into minuscule pieces.

Worked like a charm and both Grandma and Liam finished all of their fruit while Isabel gobbled down the remainder of the uneaten pimento cheese sandwich. Grandma was very proud of Liam for eating all of his strawberries. ;-)

84 years: 1st Starbucks., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

"Oh Grandma," I said for the dozenth time, "I brought you a coffee to try. It's from a coffee shop called Starbucks. I think you'll like it; it has cinnamon in it."

And once again, she would try her very first Starbucks latte and proclaim in surprise, "Well Crys, I've never had coffee like this before but this is downright delicious."

Happy Birthday Grandma!
I love you! Always and always.

"Grandma always made you feel she had been waiting to see just you all day and now the day was complete."

...Marcy DeMaree

ice cream floats.

Eve & me, originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

IBC Root Beer, in my humble opinion, is the best stuff. And makes the most awesome root beer float, even with the diet root beer. Not sure why we fool ourselves with the whole diet soda bit when coupled with something like ice cream or a Big Mac, but we do. It's as if by shaving off a few soda calories we're giving ourselves permission to indulge elsewhere, but whatever...

So last night, I made myself a (diet) IBC Root Beet float with Bryers chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry ice cream. Liam thought it was the strangest concoction he'd ever seen until he tasted it. --My mistake. That's like feeding a dog from the table - then you have to listen to it whine and beg throughout dinner.

My favorite part of an ice cream float is when the ice cream freezes from the cold soda and produces those delicious little ice cream flavored icebergs in the mug - a cold crunchy delight. =)

I remember once back in Germany, hanging out with my sister Evelyn... We hit the Baskin Robbins on post at Leighton Barracks for ice cream floats. Oh the days of simple joys... As we continued our stroll across base, me sipping my yummy float and hunting for icebergs, Eve suddenly makes a mad dash for the nearest trashcan as if she would vomit up bile and spat out a mouthful of her ice cream float.

"OMG, it's ROOT BEER!" she exclaimed in utter disgust.

"Uhm, yeah, that's generally how ice cream floats are made," I replied.

"That's disgusting. I hate root beer. It's supposed to be Coke!"

"Coke? THAT'S disgusting," I said looking at her as though that was the craziest thing I'd ever heard. "A Coke float? On what planet?"

"Puerto Rico!"

"Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone."

...Jim Fiebig

a perfectly good diaper.

baby + prunes..., originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

So yesterday I took a break from life and lost myself in the safe, soothing labyrinth of words, wisdom, and personal amusement commonly referred to as "the bookstore." --The day had been such a downward spiral of aggravation riddled with angst and irritation that I had no choice but to remove myself from the rat-race and fade into some deliriously enjoyable escape that can only be found in solitude between the covers of a good book... I collected a pile to review, found a lone vacant chair, popped a Klonopin, wrote a few lines of nastiness in my red Moleskine, and thumbed through my selections waiting for the daggered edge to leave me.

After an hour or so, I calmly, coolly, and collectively rose from my hideaway and made my way toward the register, only to find myself distracted en route by a book entitled, "Sh*t My Kids Ruined." How could I not pick that up?

I stood alone in the store flipping page after page through a glorious pictorial of the joys of parenting in its finest moments... and the wake of destruction left behind by our spawn. Photographs of everything from microwaved Barbies and Hot Wheels cars... strewn cereal, baby powder, flour, condiments, and nearly anything imaginable found in a household that comes in a box or bottle... a carpet cleaner filled with a gallon of milk... fantastic poop catastrophes... the artistic devastation that only Sharpie markers can create - on leather sofas, carpet, cabinets, and walls... broken windows, appliances, shower doors, plasma TVs and laptops... and my personal favorite - that literally had me laughing out loud: a photo of someone's hard-earned college diploma from Louisiana State University completely adorned in a toddler's scrawl!

It was exhilarating! Like an unmistakable sign from the universe that screamed at me: "YOU ARE NOT ALONE!" Yay I thought! =D

And this little therapeutic antidote began as a website started by a fellow frustrated and no-doubt exhausted mother, whose pain (and comedy) I deeply feel.

I mean sure, I could probably write my own book complete with pictorials of shit my kids have ruined over the years -- from clothing, food, and furniture to floors, carpet, walls, VHS tapes and DVD's... beautiful days and perfectly good diapers... not to mention my sanity, which leads me to this post:

Once upon a time when Liam was but a wee lad of 7 months, the family unit and I set out for some quality time on a lovely spring Saturday in April (because like pets, you feel guilty if you don't take them for a walk once in a while). We spent a few hours at a local carnival and as it was such a lovely day, we decided to ride out to the beautiful Duke Gardens in Durham, North Carolina for some fresh air and sunshine in a scenic atmosphere in hopes of capturing some life long memories in photographs.

Well, we certainly accomplished that!

We pulled into a parking spot and began to disembark though quickly discovered, much to our disgust and horror, that we had had a major blowout. "O.M.G." cannot even begin to describe the sight I beheld...

I called to Kevin, who, cued by the panic-stricken shriek in my voice, bolted over to my side of the car where we both stood, mouths gaping open like black holes of disbelief at our darling, happily-smiling cherubic baby son, completely covered from head to toe in SHIT. Yes, that's right, s-h-i-t. --It looked as if this child, clothing, car seat and all, had be dipped into a well-used septic tank. How on earth one tiny being produced such an explosion of foulness I will never know. Wow. It was truly impressive. Not a proud moment mind you, but impressive none-the-less. Holy hell.

"Give him prunes she said..." Kevin finally says in his best wife-mocking voice breaking the spell -- just as shitty happy baby stops flailing his fat little arms and legs in delight -- and completely in slow-motion to the viewing world around him -- reaches up with his little diarrhea-coated dimpled fist and plants it right in his mouth!...

I'm not sure if I gagged first or shouted, "Nooooo!" while leaping with the stealth of a Cheetah to grab his hand (again it was all a slow-motion blur) but irregardless, my prey escaped me and thus the day forevermore became known as: "The Day Liam Ate Poop."

As I said, it was a beautiful spring day. A lovely day for a wedding in fact, of which there were two. --Imagine the looks of horror, disgust, judgment, and pity on the upturned faces of many an old money wedding guest crossing the parking lot adorned in their finest formals, off to celebrate the blissful unions of their loved ones. And here we were laughing hysterically and taking pictures (memories to last a lifetime ya know) engaged in the shit-fest of the century, disassembling a crap-covered car seat, with trash bags full of dirty clothes and yucky baby wipes - and a naked, brown-speckled baby on the asphalt.

I don't think I've ever felt like such a hillbilly in my life, though we did have the good grace to deposit our abundant garbage in the proper receptacles - only after of course giving baby Poo-zilla a quick sink bath in one of the wedding reception hall's bathrooms...

And yes Liam, my little love, you can expect to see this photo again one day... in your own wedding reception slide show! ;-)

"Ninety percent of everything is crap.”

...Theodore Sturgeon

adventures in ALE.

cheers!, originally uploaded by Luna Soledad.

A lot of people don't know this about me... I was once a "narc" - though the slang term is somewhat misleading. More accurately, I was an undercover volunteer with a Raleigh division of Alcohol Law Enforcement, interestingly enough during my aspiring underage drinking days of high school. Of course, I justified this hypocrisy with the fact that even as an young immature party-goer I had strict self-imposed rules about drinking and driving (riding with my lunatic alcoholic high school boyfriend Stephen was more than enough to scare anyone straight) and the fact that my life's ambition at the time was to join the DEA. Go figure.

Even then I was smart enough to know that such a gig would look great on a resume... and it came with an adrenalin rush all its own.

It all started one evening waiting tables at the little seafood and barbecue restaurant on 50 Highway (way before I-40), the Country Squire, where I used to work. I had a six-top of unusually mixed fellows who didn't look at all like they belonged together with some clean cut in suits and a a couple rough-neck-looking types in leather motorcycle gear. Naturally I was suspicious until a jacket fell open and I spied a badge. Aha. The curiosity was killing me so I just flat out asked who they worked for. The next thing I know they collectively interviewed me and I gave them my number. I was 16.

As an undercover minor, my job was to drive some piece of shit impounded drug car to various convenience stores and bars and attempt to purchase alcohol with my valid NC drivers license looking like the teenager I was complete with pony-tail and orthodontic retainer. I would drive up alone, go in the store, pick out a six pack of beer, and go to the counter to purchase it. Soon to be followed by an undercover ALE agent picking up sodas, snacks, and gum or whatever else was on our collective wish list. If the cashier asked for ID, I showed them and often they still made the sale. I was amazed how easy it was. I mean, I knew all the hot spots in Johnston County to purchase anything but that was out in the sticks; JoCo still had bootleggers for Pete's sake. But wow. --If there was a bust, we'd meet up and do paperwork, statements, etc.

I also acted in several service training videos over the couple of years that I worked for them, though I never saw them. Betcha didn't know I was such a movie star either. ;-)

The most interesting sting I was part of involved Fairlanes bowling alley in Raleigh which no longer exists. A bartender there served 12 pitchers of beer to three teenage boys one night... one of them never made it home. WTF? TWELVE pitchers?!! That's FOUR a piece. What makes anyone think that even a legal adult should be allowed to tank up like that and turned loose on the roads? Oh, I was all in for that one.

So the night of the Fairlanes bust, I went in alone allegedly waiting for my fictitious boyfriend and friends who would never arrive while the entire ALE division bowled at the other end of the alley. --A waitress came up and asked what I'd like to drink; I ordered some domestic beer or another as my taste had yet to mature so I didn't know any better. I see her at the bar chatting with a handsome young fellow obviously full of himself and checking me out (hey, I was purdy cute back then)... She quickly returns to tell me with a wink that I would have to order from the bar but not to worry he was cool. So I walk up to Mr. Cool Bartender and place my order. He asked for my ID and I handed it over. He takes a look and smiles at me, "I'm sorry sweetheart, you've got to be 21 to buy beer." Before I could even reply, he flips my drivers license over and slides it back to me across the counter. "Let's try this again," he says, "how old are you?" "Sixteen," I respond with my best retainer smile. He kind of shakes his head like he cannot believe how stupid I am and then decided to give me one more chance, "One more time. How old are you?" "Twenty-one." He smiles and pours my beer. I walk off and pretend to sip my beer as the agents conclude their game.

It was the same bartender who had served the teenage boys.

My first time ever in a court room was as a witness in the Fairlanes case and yeah, I was nervous as hell when I took the stand. Needless to say, the handsome bartender wasn't smiling at me then. The defense attorney was your stereotypical hard-ass and did his best to bully me into confessing that I had intentionally deceived the unknowing bartender so each question that he asked repetitiously five different ways was answered something like this: "After showing Mr. Cool my valid North Carolina drivers license stating that I am sixteen years of age and after verbally telling him once that I was sixteen years of age, then yes, I said that I was 21 as he indicated that's what he wanted to hear..."

He was convicted and Fairlanes was fined. I remember the judge saying something he thought wise, like the moral of a story in the even he ever was quoted for something great, such as, 'If we can raise our children with strong morals and values until adulthood and shield them from harmful influences, they will be better equipped to make mature decision and use good judgment as adults...'

I thought that was sound wisdom until I moved to Germany and realized that if you could reach the bar you could order a beer and that strangely there wasn't a huge problem with teenage alcohol abuse. I mean, even in a country which brews the best beer in the world, in a society where ale is traditionally a staple with meals and kids grow up with access, where's the fun in sneaking around and getting shit-faced when you can sit down and have a beer with your parents at dinner? Besides, the public transportation is so superior that no one need ever drive a car and cannot afford to really until well into their 20's when they've had time to save the $2000 or so it costs to get a drivers license. Sure, DUI's happen there too (and believe me, the Polezei don't play), but more often than not, they're on bicycles. --So sure, raise your kids to be good people, I get that, but I also believe greatly in the temptation of forbidden fruit.

Anyhoo... working undercover was an extraordinary (and dare I say fun?) experience and has been an interesting topic of conversation in job interviews ever since though ultimately my career path inevitably veered after my first born. --I'm always quick to point out too, that during this time period, I was also a full-time high school student, drove an elementary school bus, and waited tables 20-30 hours a week as proof of my ability to multitask with great efficiency... though again, this was once upon a time well before marriage and children another world ago. Most importantly, I gained a unique perspective into the working lives of the men and women in law enforcement and a healthy respect for the truly good guys. I did go on to major in Criminal Justice and had a heck of a lot of fun participating in Officer Survival Training playing the role of a criminal, not to mention DUI training... but that is but another blog...

And as it so happened, my connections got me out of a few traffic tickets over the years as well, but of course these days, I have The Husband, Esq for that. ;-)

Cheers!

"You can't be a Real Country unless you have a BEER and an airline -- it helps if you have some kind of a football team, or some nuclear weapons, but at the very least you need a BEER."

...Frank Zappa