life as i know it...

6th January 2010

Text reblogged from Much To Your Chagrin with 6 notes

Fact: 1 in 5 divorce documents state Facebook as one of the main reasons the couple is splitting up.

grumpypantalones:

Specifically “inappropriate chatting”…

I wonder if any have the words “Tumblr” or “Blog” [excluding myspace] in them… probably.

This is the weirdest factoid ever.

5th January 2010

Text with 13 notes

A story. In three parts. Part three.

Part three. (Read part one, here. Read part two, here.)

When we last left the story, it was 2004. Since then, there have been some changes in my life. I have moved to Maryland. I have gone through jobs. I have gone through boys. I have gone through roommates. I have gotten a single ticket since then, for an illegal left hand turn. I have flown hundreds of times all over the country and the world. I have passed three separate criminal background checks. And then I moved to Virginia.

I apply for my Virginia license. And my biggest worry is, I hope I take a good picture. And I do! And they punch a hole in my license and say my new one will be coming to me in the mail in the next 7-10 days. And seven days later, instead of my new license, a letter comes in the mail saying that they will be unable to give me my license until I reinstate my suspended license in DC. Ok, sweet, whatever. I didn’t know I had a suspended license in DC, but really, am I surprised? This case is 6 years old, but whatever, I am sure it is fine.

By the way, the weird thing is that 3 days before I got this letter, I was talking about how I always wondered if my license was still accidentally suspended in DC. I always worried a little when driving around in the city. But, you know, not enough to stop and check. Because the whole thing was taken care of! So, it would be fine. HA. Ha.

So, I call the Clerk of the Court for the documents I need saying that this was all taken care of six years ago for the DC DMV. They say, sure, great, whatever. And then they call me back the next afternoon and leave me a voicemail.

“Hi, Ms. K******. I wanted to let you know that we found the documents you were looking for. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to send the documents to your home because the matter has an outstanding warrant attached to it. So, there is a warrant out for your arrest. Great. Have a nice day.”

Uh. What? Umm, no seriously, what? I took care of this. I REALLY ACTUALLY TOOK CARE OF THIS! And I was at work right then and trying not to cry at work and seriously, I don’t deal well with rule breaking and HOW DO I HAVE A WARRANT FOR MY ARREST?? It was as close to a panic attack that I have ever gotten. I call my mother immediately. And then, I bring in reinforcements.

And here is where I give you another big tip. You should actually probably write this one down. Because it is huge.

If you’re going to find out 6 years after the fact that you have a warrant for your arrest, you should really look into dating a lawyer.

You’ll thank me for that later.

Luckily, I AM dating a lawyer. And he is a really mean, vicious defense attorney who likes to be right all the time. Trust me. All the time. So then, I had to tell him the story. And the arrest story is funny when you’re good friends with people. It is funny when it is 6 years removed. It is less funny when you really like a guy and you are trying to impress him and now you have to ask for his help in keeping you out of jail. Fugitive is less sexy then you think. Plus, I really hate asking for help. Plus, you have to admit, the story of how this all went down is kind of ridiculous. I have actual friends who have known me for years that call bullshit on the story.

In any event, whether he believed me or not, he helped me out. (I suspect he didn’t actually believe the vast majority of the story to begin with. But only because it is out of control far fetched. I PROMISE IT IS REAL!)

There were a lot of calls made to the Attorney Generals office trying to figure out what was going on. I suspect there was actually a lot of stuff that he was doing that he didn’t actually tell me about because he knew I was freaked out. The situation brought me to tears on more then one occasion and every time he would bring up my options, I would ask if I was going to jail and what the worst case scenario was. I was not doing well.

He never thought that my actual story would be believed by anyone in the prosecutor’s office. There was no way that any of the back room deal was in the file and even less of a chance that anyone remembered this case from 6 years ago. Then one day, I get a call.

“You’ll never believe this. It is all in the computer. Everything you told me, down to the details. Whoever made the deal with you wrote down everything in the file. That never ever happens. Ever. This is really good.”

But still no one could figure out why I had a bench warrant. No one. It was surreal.

Finally, yesterday, we decided to finish it. We were going to open court to turn me in on the bench warrant. One of two things would happen. Either the prosecutor would dismiss the case. Again. Or, they would set a new trial date and we would start the whole fucking thing over. Neither of those options were that I would go to jail. Don’t worry. I asked about 40 times.

So, this morning, we went to court and quashed the warrant. And the prosecutor dismissed the case in open court. Again. And the warrant is gone. And I am free to go.

To this day, no one knows why I had a bench warrant. The suspicion is that someone made a mistake. That my name was on a list next to a person who did need a bench warrant and they got off while my name got attached to the warrant. Really, that is just a guess because seriously, no one knows what the hell happened. But, it is (hopefully) over now. I can step away from being a nutjob anxious crazy person. And, soon, I will have my drivers license back and will be able to properly register my car and all will be well!

Longest story ever. Was it worth it? Was it entertaining? Was it the craziest thing you have ever heard?

5th January 2010

Text with 2 notes

A story. In three parts. Part two.

(Read part one, here. Read part three, here.)

So, I was living in Nebraska, but had to buy a plane ticket back to DC for April. Awesome. I get to see friends.

One lovely day in April, I drive my ass down to the DC courthouse. I go the appropriate courtroom. And there is no one there. Eventually people start showing up, but no one for my case. Ok. Sweet. What do I do now?

Oh, I chat up a nice old lawyer. He explains that I should go to the Clerk of the Court and see whats up. I thank him for his time and head up stairs. The clerk tells me that the District has decided to dismiss the case.

Sweet, I think! This whole nightmare is over! This is awesome. Gosh, I wish I hadn’t spent $300 to get here to hear that, but, awesome. Great. Woohoo.

If you think my story ends there. You are crazy.

I get something in the mail in July saying I have failed to show up for court in June and that a warrant has been issued for my arrest. Umm, what? That seems ridiculous as no one told me I had a court date in June, plus, hello! You dropped the case. Apparently, just because the case was dismissed, someone one day could get bored and be like, yeah, we want to see her again, we’re going to refile. Awesome.

So, here is where I start asking for help. Apparently about 6 months too late. In Omaha, I live next door to a very lovely Judge and his very lovely lawyer wife. And I tell them the story and they are just appalled. So, they make some calls. And this is where the story starts getting crazy.

I am sold to the prosecutor as a dear soul. A college graduate making her way in the world. I have left DC and have no interest in coming back (oops.) I am a rule follower by every sense of the word. Plus, this was all a mistake. Dark road! Changed speed limit! Also, she was very cooperative and has already made a trip back to DC to try to take care of this once. What can we do to make this go away? Judges, you see, even judges from little Omaha, Nebraska, get their way.

So, in August of 2004, seven full months after I have been arrested for speeding through the District of Columbia, I work out a deal with a prosecutor that they will again nolle prosequi the charges if I pay the amount of what the fine would be to the prosecutors favorite charity. So, I am $300 lighter, but the whole thing has been taken care of.

Or so I think.

5th January 2010

Text with 2 notes

Side note to Part one.

Some how, while waiting for my personal effects, I chat up some of the officers in the front lobby. They were also Maryland grads and thought my situation was hilarious. I say something about not knowing where I am and could they give me directions out to where I started. They do me one better. They give me a full lights and sirens escort back to 395. It was surreal.

Also, one of them maybe gave me his number.

5th January 2010

Text with 2 notes

A story. In three parts. Part one.

(Read part two, here. Read part three, here.)

This part happened six years ago to the day. I am actually not sure it is to the day, but it was either six years ago today or tomorrow or Thursday. But the symmetry of story works better when I begin like this. It all started six years ago today.

I had just graduated from college and was back in DC to pick up my things and drive my car back to Nebraska. This night was going to be my last night hanging out with J, one of my closets friends through college. We watched The OC together every week, but this week her class was running late so I wasn’t heading over until after the show had aired. Armed with two 40s for us to enjoy and a VHS of the show, I headed from Alexandria to Hyattsville.

I was driving fast. I admit to the driving fast. I was going 60 MPH, which was faster then the 50 MPH posted speed limit this road had before Christmas. But, since then, the speed limit had changed from 50 mph to 30 mph for construction. I didn’t see those signs. Because this road, it is pitch black, with zero lights and no one else on the road. Guess where this is going? That’s right, flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

It started out like any other traffic stop. But it quickly took a turn.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?
“I do, Officer. I am so sorry. I guess my speed must have gotten away from me.”
“Do you know how fast you were going?”
“Gosh, I think I was probably around 55.” (BTW, don’t ever do that. It is the dumb, goody two shoes, rule follower in me that feels the need to confess.)
“You were actually going 60. The speed limit is 30 back there. You were reckless driving. I am going to have to take you in to the station.”
“Umm, I am sorry. What?”
“This is reckless driving. I’ve already called it in. You’ll be heading down to the station with me.”

This is where I start bawling. Full on, crazy person crying. The officer is actually really lovely, despite, you know, arresting me. He doesn’t impound my car. He tells me exactly what is going to happen, exactly what I should do. He lets me stay in my car while we wait for a female officer to come frisk me and for a rookie to come drive my car to the station for me.

And then I call everyone I know. Seriously. I am in that car for 25 minutes and I call everyone I have ever spoken to in life. My mother and father, my grandmother, my aunt and uncle, my friends. Everyone. News of this arrest hits like wildfire and soon everyone knows Caroline is going to jail. It was insane.

Finally, the lady cop comes and frisks me and the crying starts again. They put me in handcuffs in the back of the car and drive me to the Anacostia station house. And put me in jail while the dude does the paperwork. (This leads me to a side story where they take my shoelaces and the string in my sweatshirt, so I won’t hang myself. Over a speeding ticket. And they go to take the string out of my yoga pants and I am crying so hard at this point and mumble something about not being able to keep my pants up without the string that they let me keep it. It was ridiculous.)

So, I then spend the next two hours in a jail cell with a prostitute and a drug dealer. In head to toe Maryland Terrapin clothing. A proud graduate of the University. We have lovely discussions. They ask me what I am in for. They tell me what they are in for. They ask me questions. (“Do you think they look for drugs in shoes? They are at my house right now looking for drugs.” “Umm, sorry, I am not sure. I think they use dogs for that kind of search.” “Oh, shit.”) Two hours later, the police officer comes back with my cell phone and my Coach purse and tells me I am expected in court in April and he will see me then.

Moral of the story, kids. Don’t speed in DC. This will become more and more clear as the story continues.