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: "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.