Some Notes from the Road

We left on Thursday the 14th for our last little summer road trip. Not far out of town, after stopping at our favorite fruit stand for some Fredericksburg peaches, we see a cop's flashing lights in the rearview mirror. My first thought was, Great. Mike's getting another ticket for me to help him with. My second thought was, Glad I'm not driving. My third thought was, He's such a good B.S. artist that he usually talks his way out of these things much better than I ever can. So we pull over and realize that we have been stopped by the Blanco County Sheriff. Mike starts in with his ever-so-apologetic and cordial refrain as he makes sure his military I.D. garners maximum exposure while he fumbles for his license in his George Costanza wallet. I think Mike mumbled something like, "I haven't driven much since I got back from my tour in Iraq..."

Right after the sheriff asked, "Do you know how fast you were going?" he proceeded to query us about my "4 VETS" license plates. I straightened my halo and leaned forward from the passenger seat to tell him that I'm an attorney who helps veterans get their benefits from the VA. He then told us that he has nothing against lawyers and that in fact, people complain about them until they need one. He explained that he needed an attorney to help him keep his job as sheriff. Apparently, because he was the only Jew in town (and probably the entire county) he was subjected to some discrimination.

{By the way, why do I feel uneasy referring to a Jewish person as a Jew? It would be fine to refer to him as Jewish, but somehow, the phrase "a Jew" carries some sort of pejorative connotation. Similarly, for some reason, it is inappropriate to refer to a Mexican as a Mexican. Yet it is perfectly fine to use that word in reference to food. Now I understand why we should not refer to Americans of Mexican descent as Mexicans, but when you see a construction truck barreling down a South Texas highway with a bed full of 20 or so Hispanic-looking gentlemen, I believe I am within my rights to say, "Look at how many Mexicans they could fit in that truck!" Call me a racial profiler, but I'm just saying.}

Now back to my story. This sheriff then proceeds to tell us about his 20-year military history in Korea and Vietnam. He tells us about his buddies at the VFW hall and some of the problems they have had with the VA. At this point, I'm realizing that there is no way Mike's going to get a ticket. Always on the lookout for an opportunity to drum up some business, I reach toward the officer and say, "I guess it would be inappropriate for me to offer you some of these business cards?" "Oh no, not at all. I appreciate it," he said as he handed us his card in return.

We then sat and chatted with this man about his life history and how he came to live in Blanco, Texas after growing up in New Jersey. The kids started getting restless and couldn't figure out how or why we were making friends with a policeman who had stopped us for speeding. This is because the kids don't usually witness Mike's finesse in such situations. They are much more familiar with the sexual harassment and police brutality that I endure every time I get pulled over.

As we got closer to Dallas, we stopped at a convenience store for a restroom break. As Mike pumped gas, I took the kids into the single restroom. Now that he's 11, Luke doesn't think he needs to go into a restroom with his mom and sister. While I can understand and appreciate that, I also know that he is prone to wander off. Not that I'm afraid he would get lost in the woods somewhere or be abducted, I just know that he would lose his place in line for the restroom and/or forget he needs to pee and thereby slow us down or set us up for another stop down the road.

So, there I am in this one-toilet restroom with my kids. Fortunately, the walls don't sport too many obscene vocabulary words they want me to define. Unfortunately, one wall proudly displayed a row of condom machines that I daresay would rival anything found in the powder rooms of the best gay bars across our fine country. The kids didn't ask many questions, probably because they were as mesmerized as I was. They had grown accustomed to seeing tampon machines, so I just hoped they considered these items to be yet another mysterious adult hygiene product. (Which I guess they kind of are.)

There were neon glow-in-the-dark condoms (useful for the more hard-to-find-in-the-dark sizes). There were tropical scented condoms (just throw some sand on the bed, close your eyes, and suddenly you are being boned on an island paradise). There were flavored condoms (I guess for those times when a popsicle, or a banana, or a corn dog just don't do it for you). There were condoms with tips, ticklers, tinglers, tentacles, and teeth. Condoms with ribs and ridges, knobs and nubs, fringe and fur.

But the best by far was a black one covered from head to scro with something that looked like beefy rounded tire treads. These had their own special dispenser and I'm sure they cost extra. NO, I didn't buy any. (I was out of quarters.) They were offered only in sizes marked XL, XXL, and XXXL. These bad boys were called "Rugged 'n' Ready." For some reason, I found that funny. But it got WAY funnier when Katy looked at it and mispronounced rugged as a one-syllable word, rugg'd. "Mom, what does rugg'd mean? 'Rugg'd 'n' Ready?'" I would have peed my pants laughing if I hadn't already been on the toilet.