Happy Birthday, Just in Queso!

This blog-child of mine has officially been in existence for one year now! Yay! In honor of this event, I’ve decided to write an EPIC  poem that shamelessly links back to previous posts.

Just to be clear, I’m not calling it “epic” in order to compliment it. (Although I DO compliment my blog. I love you, blog. You’re beautiful.) No, an epic poem is one that is long, and usually about some sort of heroic feat.  The definition doesn’t stipulate what “long” means, nor does it specify what entails a “heroic feat,” so I’m going to take advantage of this loophole and refer to my work here as epic.

After all, one MIGHT say that keeping a blog is a heroic feat. I don’t know who that person is, but they very well could exist.

I’m just going to leave this here and back away slowly before you can argue with me…

It’s my one-year blogiversary
And of that, I’m pretty proud
So I thought I’d write a little ditty
Reliving my posts out loud.

How many posts have I written?
The answer’s one hundred and seven.
And in a moment of poetic perfection,
My followers are two hundred and eleven.

As you may have figured out by now,
I am a dedicated fan of cheese
I’ve tested many quesos in this joint
In search of the ones that please.

Texican Café’s was too greasy, and
Super Taco’s was way too thin.
Chili’s was a revelation:
Calling that shit “queso” should be a sin.

Shady Grove was pretty good, but
Even better was Jack Allen’s Kitchen
I could really go for some of that right now
That pork was really bitchin’.

The most recent trip: Texas Chili Parlor;
The journey started with Kerbey Lane.
Sazon was in the lead for months,
Until Mamacita’s set us aflame.

Some quesos are spooned in tortillas
Others have been dipped with chips
Some let us make our own concoctions
But they all had us licking our lips.

Let’s move on from queso now
‘Cause I could talk about it hours.
Don’t believe me? Read this love poem
That stuff has magical powers.

I’ve written about my hatred of birds
And my love for all things dolphin
I’ve admitted my desire to kidnap dogs,
Which would be an easy feat in Austin.

I’ve  penned a letter to my router
And another to my laptop
I’ve made a Christmas drinking game
And I’ve narrowly escaped a cop.

Let me think what else I’ve done
Oh! I’ve house-sat like a boss.
I’ve learned a lot from Jerry Springer,
And I’ve also defended Ross.

At times I’ve confessed to telling lies
Like that time I called 911
Or that genius scheme to steal all the chocolate,
Or what I do for Sunday fun.

My family isn’t safe from spotlight –
You’ve heard about Mom, Dad, and Grandma.
They weren’t too thrilled with my “pantyless” tale
(But they should be used to my choices by now.)

In an ideal world I’d include ALL my posts
But that poem would be meters long.
My brain is too full of useless info,
But for my finale: here’s the carb song.

Thank you to everyone who’s taken the time over this past year to read my posts, and even better, leave comments with your thoughts! I love you all, and if I were having a birthday party for my blog, I’d totally invite you over for cake. Unless the cake was that multi-layer fudgy chocolate kind, and then I’m not sharing any. You understand.

I’ve had a lot of fun so far, and am looking forward to the next kabillion years of blog-keeping! ❤


Not the Brightest Bulb in the Box

One lit bulb among unlit ones

I can be a strange grown up sometimes.

There are some duties that I can carry out on a consistent basis, and with little complaint. I’ll gallivant around, adulting like a fricken champion, with “You’re Gonna Make it After All” playing triumphantly in my head.


And then, I’ll hit a wall. Suddenly, the simplest of tasks will seem like a huge mountain to climb. A burden to shoulder. An obstacle to cross. An – never mind, you get it.

An indefinite number of weeks ago, a light bulb in one of my living room lamps went out. No problemo. I always keep “extras” of certain items around, and I quickly replaced it. Since this was the last of my extra light bulbs, I put the item on my grocery list, figuring I could pick some up the next time I went to the store.

And this, my friends, is where things got weird.

I’ve gone to the store numerous times since running out of bulbs, and each time, I leave without them. I see the word on my grocery list – and then disregard it with a hint of apathy.

“Eh, the lightbulbs are all the way on the other side of the store, and I just…I don’t know. I don’t want to.”

Then, I stare wistfully at the other side of the store, as though I really WISH I could get to the bulbs, if only they weren’t so far away. If only there weren’t so many obstacles in between us. I picture this journey to The Other Side as something akin to Oregon Trail – complete with oxen to yoke and rivers to ford.

I’d be desperate, tired,  and hungry. I’d probably catch cholera.

Especially if I’m at Walmart.

It’s now been weeks, no, months, since I used that last bulb, and I still haven’t bought new ones.

What is this? Is this just simple laziness? If so, then why can I run 53 errands, unload the dishwasher, clean the bathroom, and still have energy left over to bake a cake, but getting light bulbs is just slightly beyond my abilities?


Each time I stand in the store and make the decision to forgo the bulbs yet again, I get a mischievous thrill. Like a high schooler plotting to skip class. Or, like an adult who can refuse to do simple tasks, because there are no other adults around to punish me.

Screw the patriarchy! They can’t tell me when to buy light bulbs!

But when I leave the store empty-light-bulb-handed, I feel a bit guilty and weirded out by myself. Unfortunately, the guilt’s not enough to change my mind the next time around.

I’ve come to terms with the idea that there will eventually be a consequence for my behavior. At some point, another bulb will go out in my apartment, and I’ll be plunged into an inconvenient darkness until I can get new ones.

Who knows how long this’ll go on – maybe I’ll never get new ones! Maybe my light bulb laziness will go on for years until I have no lights in my apartment and people refuse to visit me because I’ve become a stubborn, darkness-dwelling, fang-less vampire.

That’s right, I’ve now reached the point where I would rather just accept my future punishment for not doing the thing that I need to do, rather than just DOING the thing that I need to do.

NOTE: I originally wrote the above post FOUR freaking months ago, but ultimately decided not to post it. Why did I publish it today? You guessed it. The first lightbulb has gone out.

And so it begins.

Has anyone else found themselves completely unmotivated to do a simple task? What chore challenged you? Did you eventually give in and do it, or did you endure some type of consequence?


Birthday Gifts for Unusual People

My dad is a strange man. And I have no fear of hurting his feelings in saying that, because he’s the type of guy who takes pride in being strange. I have full confidence that he’ll grin and nod his head in agreement when he reads this.

And he’ll probably be wearing my mother’s sparkly pink reading glasses, because he can never find his own. 

There’s nothing wrong with being different, except for when it comes to those of us who have to buy gifts for Said Strange Person. My dad’s birthday is today, and if you didn’t notice, this day falls quite close to Father’s Day, meaning that each year, I have to figure out two gifts close together in time.

Like many others, I often turn to Google for ideas.

My dad is not the archetypal father that you see in all of the books, movies, and TV shows, and that many of you may have yourselves. He’s not into sports, he’s not a wine aficionado, and I can’t remember the last time I saw him wearing a suit. Therefore, stereotypical gifts of ties, golf equipment, and football memorabilia are just not welcome here.

Neither is a taxidermied deer head, nor one of those “manly” jewelry boxes that holds 10 different watches.

What the hell, Google? Do any dads actually want these things?

When I was a kid, gift-giving was a bit easier. For several years, my present to my dad was a collection of illustrated stories about rogue rats that get into a pot of chili and basically destroy all of our lives – until Dad saves the day.

Don’t be jealous. You too can be the hero of a rat infestation story, if you work hard enough. Dare to dream.

Anyway, since the typical gifts don’t work for my dad, and I’ve outgrown writing rodent stories, I’ve thought long and hard, and come up with some other ideas that may work in the future:

  1. Beard Accessories
    My dad sports a long, Duck Dynasty-esque beard and ponytail. He’s very proud of his Mountain Man persona. Maybe he’d enjoy adding some extra pizzazz to his facial hair now and then? Unlikely, but you never know.
To clarify, this is not my father. Not to my knowledge, anyway.
  1. Dictionary
    My dad likes to take certain….shall we call them, “creative liberties” with the English language.  This is my gentle way of saying that he mispronounces words, and then passionately insists that his pronunciation is correct. It rarely never is. A pocket dictionary might be able to clear up future disagreements.


  1. A Visor Hat that Doesn’t Bear the Name of a Fast Food Restaurant on it, because it Clearly Used to Belong to an Employee of Said Restaurant
    This one’s pretty self-explanatory.


  1. Broken Pile of Garbage
    I’m not trying to be mean – my dad just really likes to fix stuff! I’m thinking I could take a chainsaw to one of my pieces of furniture, and ask him – no, no, allow him to put it back together. Happy Birthday, Dad!
  1. Taxidermied Moose Head
    I know what I said before about a deer head not being appropriate, but this is different because it’s a moose.
    Why? My dad is a member of a motorcycle gang. And by “gang,” I mean a quartet of bearded, middle-aged men who call themselves “The Wild Moose.”

    Or maybe it’s “The Mooseketeers.”

    Either way, I think something like this would be perfect for him:

Again, not my father. Probably. (Macklemore’s “Downtown” music video)


  1. A New Jacket. Or just a Jacket that isn’t Older than His Adult Children
    Again, somewhat self-explanatory.
  1. Book of Campfire Songs
    On their unruly gang trips, The Wild Moose go camping, and sometimes sing songs around the campfire. It’s adorable. (Dad would probably be offended by my use of “adorable” here, though, so I’ll amend that to say that his band of rebel farmers is super tough and masculine. Nothing says “hard” like campfire songs.)


    Anyway, Happy Birthday, Dad! (And also Happy Birthday to mah cheese wife, who happens to share her birthday with my strange parent.)



My American Week

I had a bunch of little stories (or storylettes, if you will) from this week, but none of them were interesting enough or detailed enough to deserve their own individual posts, so I decided to combine them all into one big one.

It’s a smorgasbord of hilarity.

By happy accident, my storylettes started to develop an oddly “American Way” theme to them. In honor of Independence Day (not the Will Smith movie, but the holiday), I decided to continue that theme with pride.

Love of Television

This past week, I had a case of the “blahs.” You know what I’m talking about. The “blahs” are when you feel bored and unmotivated to do much else other than sitting at home, pantsless. Rather than fighting or denying that blah feeling, I fully embraced it by watching A LOT of television every day after work.

Now, I’m going to let you in on a little secret about TV-watching. But you can’t tell anyone, because the FBI will probably show up and revoke my U.S. citizenship for criticizing this great American pastime.

The secret is that I re-remembered for the zillionth time that it doesn’t make me feel better to come home from work and stare at the TV for 5 hours until I go to bed.

Hold on, I just heard a noise. Gonna go check to see if any agents are hiding in my bushes.

I’m back. It was just a squirrel.

I don’t think TV is evil, but for me, it needs to be balanced with other activities, such as reading, a little exercise, some more reading, and maybe even some sunset-appreciating.

Taken just outside Austin, TX

Adding a little balance just makes me feel better about my world.


I ate a dinner of biscuits the other night. Not biscuits with eggs, nor biscuits with fried chicken. Just biscuits.

This one was surprisingly upbeat after being forced from its tin home and baked in a 400-degree oven:

Look at that smirk. Bastard knows he’s good looking.

I’m not sure what this section has to do with America, aside from the fact that I just wanted to share it. I guess this biscuit, like Americans, is pretty friendly. There. I justified it!

Hot Dogs

Over the weekend, I went on a little road trip with Cheese Friend to drop her children off at their grandfather’s. Supportive of our inspirational queso project, Cheese Friend’s dad (hereby known as Cheese Dad) offered to make us a pot of the cheesy, spicy substance.  We tried to turn him down, but Cheese Dad insisted, so we gave in. Also, we didn’t really turn him down in the first place.

Cheese Dad kindly dictated his recipe to me so that I could share it with my fellow dairy lovers. Fair warning: simply reading this recipe might cause your arteries to instantly harden.


Somehow, a few hot dogs accidentally fell into a pot of boiling water, and then made their way onto bun-shaped life preserves, where they were soothed with a smattering of chili. And then this happened:

Hot dogs with chili and queso. If you’re keeping count, this meal contained 3 different kinds of meat. ‘Merica


I encouraged my best friend to act like a nationalistic fool while she’s visiting Ireland. This is how I show my loyalty and love to my country.


Dehydrated animals = Heaven

On our trip back from Cheese Dad’s, Amanda and I stopped at a store called Venison World, where we stocked up on treats like deer jerky and chocolate-covered almonds. If that isn’t already USA enough, this store exists in a town called Eden.

A meat-themed store in a town named after paradise? Why, it just don’t get any more ‘Merica than that.

…Unless a bald eagle had swooped down and stolen the jerky right out of my hands. And then carried it off to a nest of baby eagles being guarded by a camo-wearing eagle holding a shotgun.


So! How were your 4th of July celebrations? Are you going to give me up to the FBI for mildly criticizing America’s favorite technological pastime? Perhaps most importantly, how do you feel about smiling biscuits?

Grocery Bag Confessions

Have you ever been on Postsecret? The website is a bit amazing. People make and submit anonymous postcards divulging their most personal secrets and confessions. Some of the “baggage” is heavy and sad, like those big travel trunks, or giant suitcases. Other secrets on the website are more lighthearted, like….grocery bags.


That was a rough metaphor, but you get what I’m saying. Hopefully.

You know what? Just go take a quick look at the site to get a better idea of the immense awesomeness of it. I’ll be here when you get back. I probably will have eaten all of the chocolate, though. Sorry about that.

For today’s post, I thought it’d be interesting to make a few secretive postcards of my own. But not of the dark stuff! Heavens to Betsy, no. Although I’m often struck by the pluck (heehee that rhymes) of the people who submit to Postsecret, I’m personally a bit of a chicken, so I’ll just stick with my more lighthearted secrets.

Or, my grocery bag confessions, if you will:






Anybody else guilty of these secrets? (Except for the Christmas tree one – I’m assuming I’m alone on that one.) What lighthearted confessions are you willing to make?


The Lie, the Guilt, and the Wardrobe


For a couple of weeks, I’ve been participating in a Blogging U. course called “Everyday Inspiration.” For an assignment last week, I asked readers to visit my contact page and suggest ideas or questions for me to blog about in the future. Thanks to those of you who took the time to suggest prompts for me! Feel free to submit more as they come to you 🙂

For today’s assignment, WordPress recommended answering one of the questions or post ideas that I received. There were lots of funny, intriguing, and downright strange ideas, so this was a tough choice. Fortunately, I’ll have plenty of material in the future should I need some inspiration!

The post idea that I selected for today’s assignment is this:

 What is something weird you did as a kid?

I was a relatively well-behaved and normal kid, despite my penchant for playing in my closet and making up mildly concerning stories about my dolls.

And my tendency to stand next to my parents’ bed and stare at my mother as she slept.

Totally ordinary stuff.

Truth is, I definitely had my moments of teasing the line of normalcy. And by “teasing the line,” I really mean flying an airplane over the line, and laughing maniacally as I left it behind me.

Anyway, it wasn’t hard for me to think of a strange story, but I thought this anecdote could best be told through a series of pictures I crafted on MS Paint.

Think of it as being like a children’s story – with swear words and an inappropriate lesson at the end.


Moral of the story: I was a weird child. Also, Moms can be tricky.

What were you like as a kid? Can you remember any strange things you might have done, or terrible lies you told? Did you get away with these things, or were you eventually caught?


The Mosquito is So Not Neat-O

Ahhh…summertime. This season brings a lot of wonderful things:

  • Ice Cream
  • Barbecues
  • Temperatures warm enough for swimming

And it also comes with some dangers:

  • Snakes
  • Sharks
  • Getting run over by a lawnmower

But the most dangerous, the most insidious of summer hazards, is this guy:


I think we can all agree that the mosquito is the true bastard of the animal world. Obviously, mosquitoes got tired of bears and poisonous spiders getting all of the drama and attention, so they had to take action. They feel like they have something to prove to the rest of the animal kingdom.

Last summer, I thought it’d be fun to randomly develop a severe allergy to mosquitoes, despite never having had a reaction before. It’s all part of my master plan to preserve my average looks.

The demons would bite me, and my skin reacted by getting swollen, hot, and horrifically itchy.

Like this!

And this!

I know what you’re thinking – how does this girl not have a line of admirers following her everywhere? I’m stumped too, you guys. I’m stumped too.

But this year – I will not be brought down by the mosquito! I will not look like I’m slowly turning inside out! This year, I WILL fight back!

Here are the battle strategies I’ve come up with so far:

1. Dress like I’m Joey Tribbiani playing a nonsensical prank on Chandler

They recommend wearing layers? I’LL SHOW THEM LAYERS.

2. Slowly poison myself and others by maintaining a permanent cloud of DEET

I can always get new lungs on the black market.

3. Start a line of mosquito net fashion – I’ll call it “insect couture”

Hello children. I’ll be your counselor.

4. Hire tough-looking mosquito hit-men to walk beside me and swat away any invaders

Hit-men cleverly disguised as skinny teenage boys

I’m fresh out of ideas at this point – UNLESS I can find a way to fashion earrings out of citronella candles…

April Foolishness

Some of the photos and screenshots I took on my phone during the month of April do a pretty good job of reflecting how the month went for me in general:


Got creative for dinner one Friday night. It was a tough week, okay?


Worked on my crochet temperature blanket – the color of each row depends on what the temperature was in my area that day.  I add one row every single day for one year, so it’s going to be gargantuan when it’s done.  Have a herd of cows that you need to keep warm next winter? I’ll send you this blanket.

(The wine is to help me forget my recurrent nightmares that the blanket is slowly smothering me to death.)


Celebrated Ice Cream Grandma’s 90th birthday. True story: mere moments before we left for the (surprise) party, my rapscallion grandmother groaned and said, “I hope no one tries to throw me a party. I hate parties.” Gulp.


Reminded myself that grad school was totally worth all that time and money and stress and studying and money and test-taking and money. I’m sure it won’t take me a kajillion years to pay off my student loans. Everything’s fine! (Excuse me while I cry into my cereal.)

Tried three new quesos! All the ever lovin’ cheese a girl could want.One was from Billy’s on Burnet, and the other two reviews are still to come.


Casually strolled around my neighborhood and pretended like it was enough exercise to burn off all the cheese I had eaten earlier in the day.


Remembered yet again that I have bad luck ordering clothes from online. Example A: the bikini top that looks cute at first,  until you realize that the cups are a mile apart. Seriously, what kind of mutant boobs are THIS far apart?

If anyone has ideas for fixing it, I’m all ears. Because otherwise, I’m getting out my machete and about 60 safety pins. You haven’t won yet, Amazon!

And last but not least, I laughed at a conversation that took place between my fellow cheese-judger Amanda, her sister Katrina, and me:


It’s unclear which “Amanda” Katrina was referring to here, but it’s true either way. The love we have for gooey cheese is far more romantic, stable, and enduring than many other love stories.

All in all, my April brought some stressful days, but also lots of days of celebration and cheese. What was your April like? I’d love to see what kind of pictures you took throughout the month.

P.S. – Anyone want to make bets as to how long the blanket will measure once it’s completed in a few months? The winner can have…the satisfaction that comes with being a really good guesser.

My Chance to Kidnap a Dog: The Story of Scruffles

I very badly want a dog, and I recently wrote a post about my desire to kidnap yours. Yes, YOURS. You know Mr. Furry would love me more.

 Unfortunately, my apartment doesn’t allow pets, so I’m having to come to terms with my doglessness for now. But it’s not easy.

After work this evening, I decided to go on a casual stroll through my neighborhood. There’s a wooded area with a little creek flowing through it, and it’s perfect for decompressing after a weird day.

I’d only been there a few minutes when I wandered upon this little gal:


I glanced around, but there were no people nearby, no one calling for a lost dog. I briefly wondered if this was a test – had the FBI read my post about kidnapping? Were they waiting in the bushes to see if I’d steal this one? Was this a decoy dog?

I decided not to snatch her up and make a run for my apartment, because I’m a selfless person. Also, I didn’t want to get arrested.

I knelt down to look at the cutie’s collar and noticed there was no name or address, just a phone number to the vet. Her fur was pretty filthy, and there were a few little stickers in it. I immediately named her “Scruffles.”

I wanted Scruffles for my very own. I pictured her living a happy life in my apartment, lying in a cashmere-lined dog bed and sharing my Tuna Tetrazzini with me.

I worked up the nerve to call the vet’s number, and gave her the tag number listed on Scruffles’ collar. There was no phone number listed in the file, but she was able to give me a home address.

Also, it turns out the dog’s name was actually Ginger. But she’ll always be “Scruffles” in my heart.

I scooped up Ginger-Scruffles and started walking, intent on getting back to my car so I could drive the pup home. But I was feeling very judgy of Ginger-Scruffles’ parents. Why did they not have a phone number listed on her tag or vet file? Why was the dog so dirty? How did she end up so far from home?

It was as though the owners wanted  me to keep little Ginger-Scruffles.

This story has a pretty anti-climactic end. On my way out of the park, I noticed a man with another shih tzu, and I thought to ask whether the scruffly baby in my arms was perhaps his. And it was.

The guy seemed shockingly uncaring that his dog had been missing, and told me that Ginger-Scruffles “has arthritis and has trouble keeping up” with him and the other dog. I don’t want to seem like a know-it-all, but maybe try walking slowly so your elderly dog can keep up. Or, better yet, PUT HER ON A LEASH!

Sorry for shouting. Those few minutes of dog ownership probably went to my head.

I just want you all to know that I totally could have kidnapped this adorable animal, and I didn’t. I deserve a high-five AND a gold star. And maybe a cookie. Don’t you think?





Lamest Police Chase Ever


One night a few years ago, I was driving home from my best friend’s house. I lived less than a mile away, and usually took the short way home through the neighborhood, but as fate  impulsive decision-making would have it, I elected to go the long way, which involved driving down a major street.

*Ominous music plays*

As I drove down the street, headed for home, I started to hear a siren going off somewhere near. Perplexed, I glanced around outside, trying to locate the source of the sound. It grew louder as I continued to drive, and I realized it was coming from the direction of  a Skinny’s convenience store just ahead of me.

A lone car sat in the parking lot, and I decided that the obnoxious sound must be coming from its alarm.

Satisfied about solving the mystery, I continued on my drive. As I passed by the Skinny’s, I shot a quick glance at the inside of the store, which was supposed to be closed for the night.

To my surprise, I could see a shadowy form walking around inside.

Almost instantly, I realized that the alarm I was hearing was coming not from the abandoned car, but from the store itself.

My heart started pounding. Maybe I was witnessing a robbery! Why else would there be an alarm going off in a building that also happened to contain a sketchy-looking figure?

This was equal parts exciting and terrifying for someone who had always lived in a small-ish city. I’m sure people from huge cities see multiple murders and robberies on a daily basis, but this was big for my town.

Driving away from the scene of the crime, my heart still thumping, I brainstormed the various options I could take:

The answer was obvious, so I maneuvered a Batman-style U-turn and headed back toward the store. My plan was to stay in the safety of my car, but take careful notes of the thief’s actions and appearance so that I could give a detailed report to the police when they arrived.

They would thank me for my bravery and tenacity, and then later present me with an award for being the world’s best-ever witness.


To my relief (or disappointment), two police cars were pulling into the Skinny’s parking lot as I approached it. After a moment’s hesitation, I shrugged and continued to drive past, figuring the police could handle this one without me.

Then, an even more questionable idea struck me.

Obviously, my vigilante skills were not going to be needed, but perhaps I could be useful in another way. I could return to the crime scene and observe what went down between the police and the criminal, and then share my first-hand account with the local newspaper.

The journalists would be so impressed with my investigative work, they’d offer me a job on the spot. I’d be a hero.


Enchanted by this plan, I once again made a sloppy U-turn and drove back toward the store for the third time in mere minutes.

Unfortunately, the police had not yet entered the store. They were still sitting in their cars.

And now they were looking at me. Shit.

I made the snap decision to keep driving past the parking lot, but was horrified to look in my rearview mirror and see one of the police cars pulling out of the lot after me.

Right away, I started to panic. The police had most certainly seen me driving past the store multiple times, and were clearly wondering whether I was an integral part of this crime – the get-away driver, perhaps.

They were not going to award me for my bravery or offer me a job. They were going to pull me over and question me, and would most likely not buy my “concerned vigilante” story. I would be arrested and put in handcuffs; I would be frisked.


I imagined myself in an orange jumpsuit, sobbing uncontrollably in the corner of a jail cell.

I tried to breathe and remain calm as I made a right turn onto a side street in my neighborhood.

The police car turned after me. But they didn’t pull me over.

Then, I made a left, and so did the police. Still nothing – no lights, no sirens, but still following close behind me. My brain bounced back and forth between trying to maintain a degree of rationality and dissolving into complete panic.


When the police car followed me onto my street, I wanted to throw up. They were obviously planning to arrest me in my own driveway. My parents would sleepily stumble out to the yard, blinking in shock at the flashing red and blue lights. Witnessing their daughter being put in handcuffs.

They would be clutching each other and crying in disappointment. Wondering where they went wrong.

As I made the final turn into my driveway, I prepared myself for my imminent arrest, telling myself that maybe jail wouldn’t be so bad.

I parked my car and waited for the inevitable.

To my overwhelming relief, shock, confusion, and about nine other feelings, the police car did not turn in after me. It passed my house and continued on down the street.

I exhaled slowly, trying to slow my heart rate back to normal.

It seemed the police didn’t think of me as a suspect, but simply an over-curious idiot who needed to be chased away from a possible crime scene. And they weren’t wrong. Rest assured, justice was served through a healthy dose of embarrassment on my part.

(And no, I never did figure out what was going on inside that convenience store.)

Has anyone else accidentally found themselves in a pickle with police? How did you get yourself out of it?