How to effectively talk your way out of getting a ticket.
Data collected and experiment tested by: Yours Truly.
1.Have a vagina. And boobs. If you are one of my 3 male readers and you have the genetic misfortune of lacking these integral components, you might want to quit reading now. I can't guarantee that this carefully gathered data will work for you.
2.Commit an obvious infraction. Making a blatantly illegal U-Turn over a double yellow, while operating left of center generally provides enough evidence to alert Johnny Law.
3. Get a little crazy and drive sans seat belt while committing said infraction.
4.When the Constable pulls you over, make sure to lose all sense of composure. Shaking like a whore in church while speaking unintelligibly as said Po Po approaches your car door is generally proper decorum.
5.When asked for your Vehicle's License, Registration and proof of insurance, make sure to provide only your license. Hand over your AAA card instead of the insurance verification. When asked to provide the correct information, be sure to ask the officer what that slip of paper looks like exactly, all the while, rambling on about how, "[Your] father is vigilant about having this paperwork on [your person] at all times."
6. Make sure that the Registration on your vehicle is expired. When asked why, blame it on the DMV. Sticking it to the man once in awhile never hurt anyone.
7. While browsing through your very disorganized folder of car records in your glove compartment, praying that some sort of documentation exists that will absolve you of your cardinal driving sin, make sure to be wearing a strapless beach cover up without undergarments. This will provide for optimal nippage as you lean over in an attempt to retrieve said documents.
8. When asked why you should get off and not get the proverbial book thrown at you, reply by saying that there is no reason. You expect to be punished to the full extent of the law.
9. When the officer exonerates you of your wrongdoing, gravel just the right amount. You don't want to look like a kiss ass. But you also want to make your appreciation apparent. A simple "Thank you, sir, this won't happen again," is sufficient. (Not to mention, you already showed some bosom, even if it was accidental... That should be "thanks" enough.)
10. Write a blog to help others evade the plight of being issued a ticket. Your driving karma is sure to increase as a result.
If you follow these 10 simple steps, I am willing to bet that you too, can fight the law, and win!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Editing
I am a good editor. I pride myself in my ability to spot a typo a mile away, and I get a strange satisfaction at pointing out a mixed modifier, spelling error, improper comma or verb tense confusion. My editing skills apply, however, only for others' work. I am, for all practical purposes, unable to spot my own errors in syntax. It's my writing, and I know exactly what I was thinking when I added that extra comma, albeit possibly misplaced. I suck at self-editing.
In my life, however, I am keenly aware of each mistake and wrongdoing that I have committed, and hold myself culpable for my actions; (a lesson that my parents instilled in me from little on,) in an effort to notice my fallibility, my humanity, and ultimately, to know myself as best as possible. Which, as you may guess, I do.
One area of said self-understanding that I fail to understand, however, (how's that for a paradox?) is that which applies to the opposite sex. I am 22 years old and have never had a boyfriend. There have been a few opportunities which have come my way, but never with anyone for whom I have felt it was worth jumping my proverbial ship of independence.
In the meantime, though, I have managed to effectively attract every derelict, old man, social anomaly and/or weirdo in some manner or another. While the capers and escapades of a day in my life make for one hell of a story, the self-deprecating bit is getting tired. The hilarity of these random antics is losing its edge.
Take yesterday, for example. Felipe, the guy at Trader Joe's, who is always friendly and helps me find a nice Cabernet that he thinks I may find palatable, or points me in the direction of my favorite snack crackers when I appear lost, asked me out. He made sure to inform me prior to doing so, that he has a criminal record, but is getting back on track, and hopes to cultivate a career as a firefighter/hairdresser in the near future. Mind you, this instance was used only for chronological purposes, and is one of many anecdotes I have in my repertoire pertaining to such. (I'm not in the mood to reference them, but trust me, there are a great many.)
Far be it from me to judge Felipe's life. That is not my intention here. In fact, I think it's great that he's turning his life around to combat arson whilst snipping the locks of his fellow firemen. Admirable, even. What I fail to grasp, however, is how, out of the throngs of Trader Joe's goers, I am the one to whom his attention is drawn.
So I guess my question is this: What is my role in all of this nonsense? If I am the self-aware individual that I claim to be, where is the consolation? Should I continue to accept these frequent occurrences, laugh them off, and use them as blog material? Or, like a misplaced comma, or subject verb disagreement, should I simply edit them out of my life?
In my life, however, I am keenly aware of each mistake and wrongdoing that I have committed, and hold myself culpable for my actions; (a lesson that my parents instilled in me from little on,) in an effort to notice my fallibility, my humanity, and ultimately, to know myself as best as possible. Which, as you may guess, I do.
One area of said self-understanding that I fail to understand, however, (how's that for a paradox?) is that which applies to the opposite sex. I am 22 years old and have never had a boyfriend. There have been a few opportunities which have come my way, but never with anyone for whom I have felt it was worth jumping my proverbial ship of independence.
In the meantime, though, I have managed to effectively attract every derelict, old man, social anomaly and/or weirdo in some manner or another. While the capers and escapades of a day in my life make for one hell of a story, the self-deprecating bit is getting tired. The hilarity of these random antics is losing its edge.
Take yesterday, for example. Felipe, the guy at Trader Joe's, who is always friendly and helps me find a nice Cabernet that he thinks I may find palatable, or points me in the direction of my favorite snack crackers when I appear lost, asked me out. He made sure to inform me prior to doing so, that he has a criminal record, but is getting back on track, and hopes to cultivate a career as a firefighter/hairdresser in the near future. Mind you, this instance was used only for chronological purposes, and is one of many anecdotes I have in my repertoire pertaining to such. (I'm not in the mood to reference them, but trust me, there are a great many.)
Far be it from me to judge Felipe's life. That is not my intention here. In fact, I think it's great that he's turning his life around to combat arson whilst snipping the locks of his fellow firemen. Admirable, even. What I fail to grasp, however, is how, out of the throngs of Trader Joe's goers, I am the one to whom his attention is drawn.
So I guess my question is this: What is my role in all of this nonsense? If I am the self-aware individual that I claim to be, where is the consolation? Should I continue to accept these frequent occurrences, laugh them off, and use them as blog material? Or, like a misplaced comma, or subject verb disagreement, should I simply edit them out of my life?
Thursday, March 18, 2010
I do.
I have a confession to make. Not worthy of "Holy Father forgive me for I have sinned" utterances, but nonetheless, a confession.
I am a Facebook stalker. Before you judge me, I would venture to guess that you are, too. Social networking, is, after all, as ubiquitous to our generation as the "puff puff pass" of the reefer and rock and roll music were to our parents'.
Whoever deemed this delightful past time taboo ought to be kicked in the shins. Repeatedly. We all do it. Tell me you don't scour the guys' screen who never called you back, and notice that he's now conversing with some bitch ass hoe who can't even spell properly? That you don't naively navigate your elementary school pals' page who, you are shocked to find, is knocked up and raising babies prematurely? Heaven forbid you tell anyone about it--you don't want to come clean and expose the truth to the masses. But I get it, it's there, you do it, and I'm here to say, "It's OK."
Recently, much of my Facebook "stalking," nay social research, (yes, that sounds much more PC,) has revealed to me that half of the girls with whom I attended college are now engaged.
We are talking at age 22 or 23.
ENGAGED.
As in betrothed.
As in he liked it, so he put a ring on it.
A diamond ring.
Now I'm not here to get all Betty Friedan on your ass, or anything, nor am I a bra burning, armpit hair pruning feminist, but I choose to believe that a woman's 20's can prove to be her most learned years.
Since graduating from college in May, I have never been more alone, scared, BROKE, jobless, or emotional in my life. Ever.
I have also never been more self-aware, independent, determined, or proud of myself in my life. Ever.
It is with experience that we learn and grow. My experiences reflect a life of independence and self-sufficiency. I have had an incredible support system, don't get me wrong, and there have been days and weeks that I felt that I just wasn't going to make it. That maybe I should just do as so many others, and move back in with my parents. And not have to write that damned rental check every month. But I did. And "I do."
And now so many that I know, or have known, are saying their own "I do's." They went home to live. And they'll move in with their husbands. And they'll probably, (hopefully,) be quite happy. But their experience will be one starkly different from my own.
And that's OK. Neither way is right. And the beauty of it is that it doesn't have to be.
(But you'd better believe that I'll be stalking the wedding photos on Facebook.)
I am a Facebook stalker. Before you judge me, I would venture to guess that you are, too. Social networking, is, after all, as ubiquitous to our generation as the "puff puff pass" of the reefer and rock and roll music were to our parents'.
Whoever deemed this delightful past time taboo ought to be kicked in the shins. Repeatedly. We all do it. Tell me you don't scour the guys' screen who never called you back, and notice that he's now conversing with some bitch ass hoe who can't even spell properly? That you don't naively navigate your elementary school pals' page who, you are shocked to find, is knocked up and raising babies prematurely? Heaven forbid you tell anyone about it--you don't want to come clean and expose the truth to the masses. But I get it, it's there, you do it, and I'm here to say, "It's OK."
Recently, much of my Facebook "stalking," nay social research, (yes, that sounds much more PC,) has revealed to me that half of the girls with whom I attended college are now engaged.
We are talking at age 22 or 23.
ENGAGED.
As in betrothed.
As in he liked it, so he put a ring on it.
A diamond ring.
Now I'm not here to get all Betty Friedan on your ass, or anything, nor am I a bra burning, armpit hair pruning feminist, but I choose to believe that a woman's 20's can prove to be her most learned years.
Since graduating from college in May, I have never been more alone, scared, BROKE, jobless, or emotional in my life. Ever.
I have also never been more self-aware, independent, determined, or proud of myself in my life. Ever.
It is with experience that we learn and grow. My experiences reflect a life of independence and self-sufficiency. I have had an incredible support system, don't get me wrong, and there have been days and weeks that I felt that I just wasn't going to make it. That maybe I should just do as so many others, and move back in with my parents. And not have to write that damned rental check every month. But I did. And "I do."
And now so many that I know, or have known, are saying their own "I do's." They went home to live. And they'll move in with their husbands. And they'll probably, (hopefully,) be quite happy. But their experience will be one starkly different from my own.
And that's OK. Neither way is right. And the beauty of it is that it doesn't have to be.
(But you'd better believe that I'll be stalking the wedding photos on Facebook.)
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
I'm so tired of you, America!
Every day at work I make sure to have some background music to get me through the day. There’s no one with whom to converse here at Braun Entertainment, other than my elderly boss, Zev, his middle-aged partner (business—not sexual,) Philip, or Ming, the office dog. Beings as neither of the three generate superlative conversation (although Ming can occasionally be quite chatty,) I generally select my go-to station—The Beatles. I feel it is generationally appropriate for all involved, and does not create a cacophony that would harm Zev’s already precarious hearing. (I won’t even get into how the likes of let’s say Kanye or Jay-Z could affect Ming’s tender lobes.)
So today, while I was listening to the general array of melodies, a gem of a tune came to my attention: Rufus Wainwright’s "Going to a Town." The refrain of the song reiterates a theme with which I can commiserate: "I’m so tired of you, America." While I believe Wainwright’s intention in writing these lyrics stems from his discontent that gays are still unable to legally marry in America, (a theme to be addressed in another post—remind me!) I can relate to their face value. I’m so tired of being in America!
Truthfully, I feel like an idiot even saying this, since I was very fortunate to study abroad in Barcelona, Spain for 4 ½ glorious months in college, but I am itching to use my passport’s powers for good again. Unfortunately, though, I am a broke recent college grad, and am obligated to write a check each month to Wells Fargo Bank, Attention: Student Loans Department. I’d much rather be squirreling away funds in a piggy bank, the saving habits attributed to 5 year olds the world over, and, apparently, me.
I sit in my office on the daily (I love that expression; its twin sister, ‘on the regular’ isn’t bad, either,) longing to make a dent in my mental list of places to go. I’m dying to go to Tel Aviv, to Thailand, and to climb to the top of Machu Picchu. Maybe I’ll have to wait awhile, but for the moment, I’m so tired of you, America! I’m going to go count the money in my piggy bank, now. Maybe I’ll have enough to afford the gas money to get me to San Fran by dawn. Maybe.
Lyrics included below:
Going to a Town
Rufus Wainwright
I'm going to a town that has already been burnt down
I'm going to a place that has already been disgraced
I'm gonna see some folks who have already been let down
I'm so tired of America
I'm gonna make it up for all of The Sunday Times
I'm gonna make it up for all of the nursery rhymes
They never really seem to want to tell the truth
I'm so tired of you, America
Making my own way home, ain't gonna be alone
I've got a life to lead, America
I've got a life to lead
Tell me, do you really think you go to hell for having loved?
Tell me, enough of thinking everything that you've done is good
I really need to know, after soaking the body of Jesus Christ in blood
I'm so tired of America
I really need to know
I may just never see you again, or might as well
You took advantage of a world that loved you well
I'm going to a town that has already been burnt down
I'm so tired of you, America
Making my own way home, ain't gonna be alone
I've got a life to lead, America
I've got a life to lead
I got a soul to feed
I got a dream to heed
And that's all I need
Making my own way home, ain't gonna be alone
I'm going to a town
That has already been burnt down
So today, while I was listening to the general array of melodies, a gem of a tune came to my attention: Rufus Wainwright’s "Going to a Town." The refrain of the song reiterates a theme with which I can commiserate: "I’m so tired of you, America." While I believe Wainwright’s intention in writing these lyrics stems from his discontent that gays are still unable to legally marry in America, (a theme to be addressed in another post—remind me!) I can relate to their face value. I’m so tired of being in America!
Truthfully, I feel like an idiot even saying this, since I was very fortunate to study abroad in Barcelona, Spain for 4 ½ glorious months in college, but I am itching to use my passport’s powers for good again. Unfortunately, though, I am a broke recent college grad, and am obligated to write a check each month to Wells Fargo Bank, Attention: Student Loans Department. I’d much rather be squirreling away funds in a piggy bank, the saving habits attributed to 5 year olds the world over, and, apparently, me.
I sit in my office on the daily (I love that expression; its twin sister, ‘on the regular’ isn’t bad, either,) longing to make a dent in my mental list of places to go. I’m dying to go to Tel Aviv, to Thailand, and to climb to the top of Machu Picchu. Maybe I’ll have to wait awhile, but for the moment, I’m so tired of you, America! I’m going to go count the money in my piggy bank, now. Maybe I’ll have enough to afford the gas money to get me to San Fran by dawn. Maybe.
Lyrics included below:
Going to a Town
Rufus Wainwright
I'm going to a town that has already been burnt down
I'm going to a place that has already been disgraced
I'm gonna see some folks who have already been let down
I'm so tired of America
I'm gonna make it up for all of The Sunday Times
I'm gonna make it up for all of the nursery rhymes
They never really seem to want to tell the truth
I'm so tired of you, America
Making my own way home, ain't gonna be alone
I've got a life to lead, America
I've got a life to lead
Tell me, do you really think you go to hell for having loved?
Tell me, enough of thinking everything that you've done is good
I really need to know, after soaking the body of Jesus Christ in blood
I'm so tired of America
I really need to know
I may just never see you again, or might as well
You took advantage of a world that loved you well
I'm going to a town that has already been burnt down
I'm so tired of you, America
Making my own way home, ain't gonna be alone
I've got a life to lead, America
I've got a life to lead
I got a soul to feed
I got a dream to heed
And that's all I need
Making my own way home, ain't gonna be alone
I'm going to a town
That has already been burnt down
The Maiden Voyage
OK so I'm finally doing it--putting index finger to keyboard (that is the modern way of saying "putting pen to paper," right?)--and starting a blog. I hope you enjoy the random musings of a verbose 22 year old female with a strong opinion on just about everything. If not, however, and upon reading my words you find yourself less than impressed, I highly reccommend my friend, Alli's blog: (URL conveniently attached here: http://1032presidio.blogspot.com/) Or, perhaps Tony Gervino's titillating type may thrill you, even further (http://selectism.com/columns/tonygervino/) As I say, I'm new at this, and there are no guarantees. So that's the disclaimer--complete with alternate material.
Should you choose to read further, (and I secretly hope that you do,) "From the Lips of JAWS"(by the way sickos--NOT an allusion to fallatio) includes the acronym for my full name: Janel Anna Waite Schepman. As such, it will feature anything and everything that I find important to share: from stories of the crazy shit that happens in my life, to commentary on pretty much every facet of my experience--politics, religion, men, movies, books, music, art--whatever happens to pop into my exorbitantly large head on a daily basis--you'll be reading it (or not.) This is the maiden voyage of my blog...God knows where this virtual ship will sail.
Should you choose to read further, (and I secretly hope that you do,) "From the Lips of JAWS"(by the way sickos--NOT an allusion to fallatio) includes the acronym for my full name: Janel Anna Waite Schepman. As such, it will feature anything and everything that I find important to share: from stories of the crazy shit that happens in my life, to commentary on pretty much every facet of my experience--politics, religion, men, movies, books, music, art--whatever happens to pop into my exorbitantly large head on a daily basis--you'll be reading it (or not.) This is the maiden voyage of my blog...God knows where this virtual ship will sail.
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