Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

17 October 2011

Dani For the Defense... or Prosecution... Whatever

So yesterday, on my way home from the in-laws, I was stopped and verbally frisked by Border Patrol.

For some reason, the Californian in me finds it hilarious that there's a Border Patrol on the alert at the Canadian Border.  Even though I've already been taken to task for making light of their duties up in these parts (apparently, Canadian Drug Runners are pretty hard core) I still can't help but snort and guffaw when I see their vehicles parked menacingly along the side of the road while I'm driving to the Price Chopper.  (Stop that car!!  I saw her steal a few grapes in the produce department!!  I'll bet she's taking them to Canada!!!)

(Somehow, the Canadian Mafia just doesn't hold the same amount of street cred as, say, the Mexican Mafia or the MS-13.  At least in my head.  Though I'm sure they're very bad-ass.)

Anyway, as I was crossing the county line between Jefferson and St. Lawrence I noticed a bunch of commotion going on ahead of me.  The Border Patrol had set up a road block and was inspecting vehicles prior to allowing them through.  Even though there were at least 6 Border Patrol vehicles, 4 police cars, and 15 law enforcement officers milling about with walkie-talkies, flashlights, and side arms, I figured they'd take one look at my shiny red HHR with the Bite Me brake light and the CA GRL plates and wave me on through.  I was wearing sweat pants, a Betty Boop pajama top (don't judge me... I was tired and had NO INTENTIONS of being stopped by any one that day, let alone Border Patrol), cowboy boots (because they were the only shoes I had with me... sexayyyyy), a hat on my head because let's face it, my bed-head is never pretty, giant Ed Hardy sunglasses, and a fat pug sitting on the seat next to me.  If this is the look that Canadian Drug Runners are going for these days, they need the Fashion Police wayyyyy more than they need the Border Patrol.  In my opinion. 

Apparently, I was wrong.  As it turns out, middle-aged women dressed in their night clothes driving down  rural highways in the late morning are exactly the kinds of people who stuff cocaine up their bums and make a run for the border.

As I stopped my car, a female officer approached me cautiously, flashlight at the ready, hand on her side arm.  Another officer scooted to the rear of my car and started shining a flashlight into the back, while she shined her light into my face and demanded, "Where are you headed today, Ma'am?"

When someone with authority calls me "Ma'am" I tend to worry that maybe I broke a law while I was under the influence of Ambien and my jig is now officially UP and am immediately rendered stupid.

Me:  *thinking fast* "Norwood?"  

(I HATE that I answer questions with a question, like I'm so dumb that I have no idea if I'm answering correctly or not.  I HATE THAT.)

Her:  "Where did you leave from?"

Me:  "Ummm... Antwerp?"  (GAHHHH!)

Her:  "What was your business in Antwerp?"

Me:  *panicking*  "Ummmm... uhhh... errr... visiting my in-laws?"

Her:  "What is your business in Norwood?"

Me:  *because I'm really, REALLYYYY stupid*  "I don't have a business in Norwood."




Me:  "I mean, I live there?"

Her: *long pause*  "Where are you from, Ma'am?"

Me:  "You mean, like, originally?"

Her:  "Yes."

Me:  "California?"

Her:  "What are you doing in New York?"

Me:  "Uhhh... living here?"

(I know, right?  WTF?)

Her:  "What brought you here?"

Me:  *stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid*  "My husband?"

Her:  *looking determined*  "And what is your husband's business here, Ma'am?"

Me:  "You mean, like, what does he do for a living?"

Her:  "No.  I mean, like, what brought him to New York."

(Was that bitch making fun of me?  I think she was.  Oooh... it's on, mama.  You think I'm stupid NOW?  Just wait.  JUST WAIT.  I WILL SHOW YOU SOME STUPID.)

Me:  "We drove here."  (Yeah... TAKE THAT.)

Her: *patiently... ohhhhh soooo patiently*  "What was your reason for moving to New York?"

Me:  *dying to say that our meth business had gone national but thankfully having a modicum of self-control*  

Me:  *instead launching into a 10 minute diatribe about being forced against my will to pack up my shit, leave my job, my friends, and my family, and move to the hell known as Northern New York so I could fully embrace unemployment, headandhumidity, ridiculously expensive produce, people with no fashion sense, and being asked MORE THAN ONCE if I was from England*

Her:  *blinking rapidly*  "And how long do you plan on staying in New York, Ma'am?"

Me:  "Until I either get fed up with it, divorce his ass, or die."



Her:  "Have a nice day, Ma'am."

(I'd like to add that throughout this entire exchange, Maisy was barking her ass off and lunging toward the other officers who were lurking around my car, shining their lights in, scoping out my interior, and no doubt looking for the giant bales of pot that I always carry with me.  If she had torn a hole in my leather seats someone would have died that day.)

Now I know that I really suck at responding to the third degree.  I think I need to practice, in case I'm ever a witness in a murder trial, or kill someone, or something.


  1. Yes, yes, and YES. There's this place in California on the 15 between Barstow (I used to live there, we can discuss that later) and Vegas, where you have to stop so they can ask you if you have brought any fruit across the state line. I so badly wanted to go through peeling an orange or chomping on an apple, but fear of body cavity searches turned me into a law abiding citizen.

  2. Wow. That is fantastic. Remind me never to ask you to be a witness for any of my cases, k?

    Maybe they were just taking a survey. Like for the New York tourist bureau. She just wanted to find out your place of residence, employment status, marital status and satisfaction with the area. Once she realized you were not going to give her a glowing review, a la I Love NEW YORK, she had you go about you way.

    I think it was the Ed Hardy glasses that did it. Don't you know that all drug smugglers wear Ed Hardy?

  3. Kelly, we lived up in Crescent City, right on the Ca/Or border. Same thing... every time we came back into Oregon they would ask if we had any fruit with us and I would always... ALWAYS... point to my husband and say, "Just him... want me to leave him here?"

    No one ever thought it was funny except me.


    Ummm... Barstow? OMG.

    My ex was stationed at El Toro in Santa Ana and we lived in Lake Elsinore... which is almost as bad, but not quite.

  4. Misty... My Ed Hardy shades give me street cred. I'm pretty sure I'm way more hard core than I actually look, so the shades are just my way of saying, "Don't piss a bitch off, yo."

    Next time I will go through the Border Patrol check singing, "New York New York" at the top of my lungs and eating an apple. That will convince them, yes?

    Or maybe I'll just start tooling around in an Amish buggy. They wouldn't stop the Amish... would they?

  5. Wow. Where do I start? Um, first off, there are hardcore Canadians? Because I've never heard of the Canadian mafia running shit from US prisons, have you?

    Second, England? Where in bumfuck are you living girl? How can they mistake California-speak for for Limey-talk?

    And finally, it seems like they really, really take their jobs seriously over there. Because crossing the border in both Cali and Texas, I've never gotten more than a quick look and slap on the hood of my car to indicate I should keep on driving.

  6. Exactly! That's why I think the border patrol here is so funny!! But when I make a joke about it (who, me??) people get all up in my stuff and tell me how ferocious the drug trafficking is up here.

    The thing is, I wasn't even IN Canada. I was going from one New York county to another New York county. I've been into Mexico and basically got a wave and a come back soon and could have been smuggling Tijuana hookers in my trunk and no one would have noticed... or cared. But you go from county to county in northern NY and all but get cavity searched.

  7. Was it okay to laugh at this post and damned near fall out of my chair when you launched into your diatribe? And then choke? Because, I don't want to offend your bad-assedness. 'SPECIALLY when you're wearing your Betty Boop pajama top...

  8. Thank you for validating how hard core Le Boop is!!

    I need to come with a warning: Do not ask a question unless you want an extremely thorough answer.

  9. That entire exchange was freaking hilarious! I always panic when questioned and I say really stupid things.

  10. I really don't think it is possible to love you more.


I'm a total comment whore... Leave me a message after the beep. *pause* *pause* *pause* BEEP!