luck of the scottish

My little brother has lived a life of bad luck. Since birth he has always been a sort of Charlie Brown type kid. He was the one who received the deck of cards at the family Christmas party only to find that the entire deck was made up of jokers. He stood limply holding his cards and watched the other children open cap guns and remote control cars. This scenario was repeated year after year with various crappy gifts. In kindergarten, after an episode of throwing a chair across the classroom, he was diagnosed with ADD. After much thought, my parents decided to medicate him which started a decade of drug induced mild nausea. When he was nine, his beloved parakeet, aptly named Toronto, crawled under the dryer and died. Bad luck is a way of life with him.

Everything came to a head when adolescent stupidity collided with his knack for misfortune. There were several run-ins with local police. Handcuffs were involved and on several occasions, his face was pressed onto the cold hood of a cop car while he was patted down.

So it only stands to reason that I would be with him when I got my first ever speeding ticket. I've gone twenty-two years with no tickets, but as soon as I drive around with my charmed brother, some cop decides to pull me over. Evidently I was going 57 in a 35 zone. And there was the small matter of my expired proof of insurance and past due registration. I didn't take it too hard. After all, I had eluded the authorities for two decades.

So, here's a little tip for ya. When the officer writes your court date on your ticket, you may want to take it seriously. Apparently, this is an actual legal court hearing that you must attend and they don't take a spin class as an excuse. I actually totally spaced my court date and didn't even remember until a few days later.

Thom and I went to traffic court so I could clear up my little, now getting bigger, legal matters. We took a number. We waited next to the chain smoker who wasn't quite sure what to do with his hands without a cigarette to occupy them. We waited for 30 minutes.

I was informed by the contrite little man behind the counter that my fee would be $1,400. At that point, I had to do some major clenching for fear that I would loose my bowels right there in traffic court. After some meager attempts at flirting and leaning on my forearms to create cleavage (desperate times call for. . .) I haughtily handed over a check and said to Thom, loud enough for Mr. Traffic to hear, "Let's get out of this nasty place."

All this took place over a week ago, but I'm just now able to talk about it without a hateful, smarting sensation rushing through my body. Next week we go to Hawaii with my brother. The motto on our family crest translates to "Forget Not". Believe me, I won't be forgetting. I plan to give him a wide berth while we are on the island. I can just see me losing a digit to the beak of an octopus, choking on a lump of poi or more likely, getting arrested for trespassing.

If you are thinking of buying some Secondsister jewelry, now would be a good time. My bank account is a little depleted if you know what I mean.