You may recall that I drove to Florida last month to collect Aisha from her breeder’s house. While I blogged frequently from my cell phone throughout that fun little adventure, there was one small, insignificant, tiny, little thing I neglected to mention. While passing through Greensville County, Virginia, which is ten miles north of the North Carolina border, I was charged with reckless driving.
I am normally an incredibly alert driver when traveling on 95, always ensuring that I watch for speed traps and clearings where troopers might be hiding. However, when I was pulled over that morning at 7:15 am, I had not been paying attention because I was trying to photograph the sunrise with my camera phone through the driver’s side window. Clearly, my priorities were in line.
I didn’t mention this ticket until now because (a) my court date was today, and (b) I didn’t tell my mother until last night. Even though I am all grown up, I was still too scared to tell my mother that I got another speeding ticket, especially because this one was for a misdemeanor. The sad part is that I didn’t even tell her by choice; I was cornered and the truth was tortured out of me.
To make a long story short, it seems that Greensville County releases violators’ names to local attorneys, who then send letters offering services to the offenders’ homes. Because I use my parents’ mailing address, they began receiving mail addressed to me from attorneys in southern Virginia. Upon receiving the first letter weeks ago, my father (using the special trouble radar that only parents possess) immediately asked me if I was applying for jobs at law firms in that area. I had no choice but to confess my transgression on the spot. However, I made him promise not to tell my mother until I could give her the final court verdict, or until the day I died, which ever took longer.
The death knell came for me last night. It was my father’s birthday, and we were celebrating with dinner at Morton’s. A few Kir Royales and a bottle of Cabernet later, my mother turned to me and said, “I know you’re not looking for jobs in Emporia, Virginia, so do you want to tell me what is going on?”
She then asked me if I’d been charged with drunk driving, knowing full well that I had passed through that region while driving alone in the early morning. I may like a glass of wine or three at times, but that question was a bit disturbing.
So I spilled out the sordid truth, along with a promise to call her first thing after my attorney went to court today to let her know the result. She took the news with remarkably good humor, which, in retrospect, probably had to do more with the dinner and the drinking than the fact that she really didn’t mind her only daughter being charged with a insurance-skyrocketing, potentially jailable offense.
It is now today, the day of my court date. I just got the news that my charge was reduced to speeding 74 mph in a 65 mph zone, which is a substantial break. True to my word, I called my mother. She listened to me sing praises to my attorney for cutting me a fabulous deal, and boast about how it is ONLY a three point violation.
She then sighed and said, “Well, that’s good. But you know what would have been even better?”
Ugh. The dreaded answer. I knew it was coming.
“Not getting the ticket at all.”