How Music Class Saved Me

I drank a fifth of vodka just a bit ago.

That is what I told the cop who stopped me on the way to Greta's music class.

I don't lie.

So, I'm driving to Greta's music class, and I get stopped for speeding. For the record, I was trying to get around one of those trucks that say "Keep back 300 feet," and was kicking it in high gear because I realized my exit was quickly approaching. Not the best of excuses, but it's not like I was just driving 80 mph willy nilly. As soon as I high-tail it into the far left fast lane, the cop car is quickly inches from my back bumper, sirens flashing and blaring, urging me to pull over. I make my way over to the far right shoulder, and the cop is at my window in no time.

He looks very, very serious, and I'm shitting in my pants. I do not want a ticket. And I hate getting caught doing something wrong. Who doesn't? I roll down my window, and I just immediately start digging in my bag for my wallet. Greta's cloth diapers and wet bag are flying out. My uneaten morning's breakfast of a bruised banana and Babybel cheese litter my car's passenger seat. I just assume he's going to give me a ticket, so I'm frantically rummaging for my driver's license, basically just ignoring him, trying to avoid looking at him, because I'm feeling ashamed. Embarassed. Nervous. Anxious.

The officer says to me, "Do you know how fast you were going?"

Me: Pause. Pause. Pause. Shake my head, crumple my lips. "Um, yeah. No."

Officer: "I clocked you at 78. Where are you going so quickly?"

Me: "My daughter's music class."

So there is baby Greta in her car seat in the back seat. She's 9 months-old. And yes, she is taking music class.

The cop bursts out laughing. Within just a couple seconds, he turns from stern law enforcement officer to a young 30-something dude you'd have a few beers with in your backyard while bbqing.

I turn up the radio for him and play the class's musical CD, which we had been listening to and singing along to. (Me singing. Greta listening. Poor kid.) The dude on the CD sings, "Boop dee boop dee doo." Or something like that.

The cop, who had just seconds before requested my license and proof of insurance, is still laughing. He leaves me with my insurance card and proceeds to his vehicle with only my driver's license, after reassuring me, "We'll get you out of here quickly."

Meanwhile, I still think I'm getting a ticket and am screaming lots of "Oh damns" in my head.

Cop comes back and says, "Thanks to you, I'm going to have that silly tune in my head all day long. How can you stand that?" And that's when I told him about the vodka.