St. Bob or Sgt. Bob?

          Have you ever had a policeman tell you to stop being a policeman? St. Bob has. 

          We used to live near a high school where teenagers would go  speeding by after school, often running the stop sign on our corner.  Several times Bob would jump in his car, somehow pull them over (I wasn’t in his car, so I’m not sure how he did this), and tell them to obey the laws. He may or may not have threatened to tell their parents, as well.

          One time I was bringing him back from knee surgery for a torn meniscus when he literally got out of the car and shook his crutch at a kid speeding by.

          Another time (I believe it’s called a stake-out) he watched a “beggar” in a parking lot who approached various shoppers for money, each time with a different story. He finally approached her, SAID HE WAS AN UNDERCOVER COP, and that she had better get out of there if she didn’t want to get arrested.  What—for lying? And isn’t he caught red-handed in the act of lying, himself?

          Finally a very kind officer came to the house and explained to Bob that, technically, he isn’t really a policeman.  No kidding. Who else has to have this explained to them?

          The officer was even nice enough to acknowledge that Bob was just trying to do the right thing (what—impersonate a policeman?), but that he needed to stop now.  This is exactly how I would speak to the patients in my mother’s care facility when their Alzheimers would make them forgetful, and they would steal pastries from the dining room.  Okay, it was just her. But I tried to use the same patient, understanding tone of voice. It’s a voice that says, “I know you’re crazy, but I’m trying not to judge.”

          The other day we were on the freeway when a dreadful driver swerved in and out of traffic. Bob, at the wheel, was appalled. “Pull ‘em over,” I said. Hey. Plenty of people  go into retirement and then come out again— Garth Brooks, Cher, Joaquin Phoenix, Jay Z, Michael Jordan, Frank Sinatra. You’ll be in good company.

And every one of those people has ordered my books. Okay, that's a lie. I just didn't want Bob to feel as if he's the only fibber in today's blog.

If I Were a Cop

The other night Richie was planning to load a piano into his Jeep.  It actually fits, except the hatch back door has to remain up.

“You can’t leave the lid up or you’ll get a ticket,” I said.

He just stared at me. “That’s not illegal,” he said.

“What! You can drive around with your trunk lid up and that’s okay?” I was flummoxed.  (Finally! I got to use the word, flummoxed).  “But it looks dangerous.”

“How?” Richie asked.

“I don’t know; it just does,” I told him.  “If I were a cop I would totally pull you over.”

“And I would say, ‘but this is legal.’”

“And I would tell you it just looks wrong.”

Welcome to the world of Joni’s Laws.  I would be giving tickets out right and left, for things that just shouldn’t happen.  Teenagers being rude to their parents in the mall.  People leaving clothes in dressing rooms.  Drivers taking two parking spots. 

Parents ignoring their climbing kids who are about to fall out of grocery carts.  I could do this all day.

And, on the other hand, I would probably never ticket someone parked in the wrong direction, on a curb.  “That’s illegal?” I would blurt out in the Police Academy.  And “You have to make brownies in a state certified kitchen to sell them—are you serious?”)

Worst of all, if pulling someone over for a traffic violation, I’d probably let them off with a big smile if all they said was, “Are you even old enough to be a cop?”  It would make my day and I would reciprocate by making theirs. 

Certain careers just shouldn’t be open to all of us, you know?

Have you read my latest book, Golden, yet?  Hurry and buy it as a Christmas gift, and then you can read it before you wrap it up!  Find it in paperback and on Kindle, then check out my other books and videos here.