The town in question: St. Paul.
The "us" in question: me and a Falcon Heights police officer.
So after I dropped off my marathon-running friend at the 'Dome on Sunday, I'm driving another friend (this one hungover and without a car) to her place in Falcon Heights. As I'm telling stories (and of course, not paying close attention to my driving), my eyes are drawn into the rearview mirror.
What are these flashing red lights I see?
Oh yes, you've got it. It's the Five-Oh, the po-lice, the man.
So I pull over, not sure if I ran a red, drifted out of my lane, or had the pedal a little too far to the floor. Given my particular gift for speeding, I was betting on door #3. Officer approaches, asks if I know why I'm being pulled over, can he have my license and insurance...and yes, ma'am, you were going 45 in a 30, didn't you realize it's only a 30? So back to his car he goes, to decide my fate...
And he returns, saying he's going to give me the benefit of the doubt, as my record is clear and I'm apparently not aware of where or how badly I was speeding. Warning, have a nice day, ma'am.
And slow down.
And I will. For now...
