This evening I got wind of some things taking place in my little low-rent community that were...unnerving. I don't know if they are true but I thought that I should call the non-emergency number for my local police department. I don't know of another way to say, "Hey Guys, here's some stuff that I think you should be aware of in the neighborhood. If you are driving by my neck of the woods, please....drive a little slower. Keep an eye on us".
It's hit or miss here with the police. Here's a short story to illustrate the relationship I have with the local police from my point of view.
Back story. Beautiful, middle aged woman wearing sweat pants, stained Google tshirt that she bought 2 sizes too large that is now tight in the belly is walking dogs. Her unkempt hair flops in the breeze.
Entranced, a man of no particular racial origin, age or size (none that I could discern) who is riding past her on a brand new girls bicycle, cardboard still attached to the spokes turns around and begins to follow along side our heroine. Uphill. Up a steep hill.
Women don't like strange men doing such things. Really. We don't. Really. Don't do that. It's creepy.
So, I marched it back home and called the NON-emergency police line to say, "Hey, police dudes. There is some girls-bike-riding-weirdo out there. He made nervous and generally, I'm not because I have these large dogs I'm walking. FYI..you might want to check him out, okay?" I don't do this to pick on strange men. No, I don't. I do this because if I were hear of some 12 year old girl getting raped down the street from me by a man matching this description, I will never forgive myself. It's my duty to call. In my mind. Not SHOOT. Just call. Isn't that being a good neighbor? Part of the community?
So...here's the funny part. I call the NON-emergency line. They ask a few questions. They offer to send an officer over (which, personally, I never know how to answer. Do I want the police at my house? Not really.) as the local tattle tale, this seems like a silly choice to me but then, I don't want them to think I'm shirking my responsibility either. Plus, unless I am going to work, I always look like hell. If someone comes over, that means I have to put on a bra. Yeah, it's true. I'm that sexy.
I digress.
One of the questions the dispatch asks me is, "What did the bicycle guy look like?" to which I replied, "He honestly looked a lot like Yasser Arafat" because the guy did look like Yasser Arafat. His looks were not what made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. His behavior did.
Men don't just stop in their tracks, not typically, not on their 10-speed girls bikes with new cardboard on the spokes, change directions to ride uphill just hear the sound of my breath rasping out of my throat in agonizing wheezes from my 30 years as an obese smoker. They just don't. So for me, looking like Yasser Arafat doesn't raise red flags. Acting like I resemble Beyonce wearing a dress made of butter at an all you can eat buffet? Sorry dude. Red flag.
Here's the funny part. When the local police showed up at my door, two seconds after I called, they can barely look at me. The officer, who is rolling his head like a puppet because eye rolling isn't enough says, "Ma'am, this poor man is just on his way to work. He is NOT a terrorist."
(Who said he was a terrorist? Did I call the FASHION POLICE? NO. I did not. Plus, I only wish I had that number. )
The officer looked and sounded so annoyed. I didn't bother to correct him and I waited until he was safely behind the darkly tinted glass of his squad car to laugh and laugh. To be honest, I was impressed they even knew who Yasser Arafat was in this town. It didn't matter that I never, ever called in a "terrorist" sighting.
I never saw bicycle boy again. Maybe his spokes caught on fire chasing after another woman, one more receptive to a man seated on hot pink pleather.
Tonight when I called in my latest NON-emergency "FYI" the officer who arrived at my door was dressed in a skin tight uniform that made me think of Mary Lou Retton at the 1984 Olympics and when I went to shake his hand, he recoiled in distaste.
Now to be fair to myself I was fully dressed this time with make-up and had brushed my teeth so his rebuff seemed a little...hurtful? Confusing? Not neighborly, to be sure.
He said, and I'm quoting, "We don't shake hands ma'am. It's too personal. We can knuckle bump, though." and there I was, knuckle bumping in my driveway with Mary Lou and her partner, Officer I-don't-like-you-either.
It didn't matter. All I could see was this.
To be fair, the local police have some really good officers on the job here. Those stories aren't as funny. After living here for a decade, I think it might be time for me to look into something more official like starting a neighborhood watch program instead of taking on the job of the old grumpy woman who calls the police over nothing all the time. That's not good and it's not what I want.
I care about my community and I care about those, like police officers, who work so hard and risk so much to keep it safe. That said, I think I need to have a better understanding about why the officers in my neighborhood are afraid to shake hands with the natives. That can't be a good sign.
In the meantime, all I can do is pray that all those years of hand shaking aren't the cause of my seemingly permanent residence in Single Town.
Too intimate. Who knew?
Your ever lovin',
Miss Pierce
It's hit or miss here with the police. Here's a short story to illustrate the relationship I have with the local police from my point of view.
Back story. Beautiful, middle aged woman wearing sweat pants, stained Google tshirt that she bought 2 sizes too large that is now tight in the belly is walking dogs. Her unkempt hair flops in the breeze.
Entranced, a man of no particular racial origin, age or size (none that I could discern) who is riding past her on a brand new girls bicycle, cardboard still attached to the spokes turns around and begins to follow along side our heroine. Uphill. Up a steep hill.
 |
| I don't think I will fit on your handlebars, Tex. |
Women don't like strange men doing such things. Really. We don't. Really. Don't do that. It's creepy.
So, I marched it back home and called the NON-emergency police line to say, "Hey, police dudes. There is some girls-bike-riding-weirdo out there. He made nervous and generally, I'm not because I have these large dogs I'm walking. FYI..you might want to check him out, okay?" I don't do this to pick on strange men. No, I don't. I do this because if I were hear of some 12 year old girl getting raped down the street from me by a man matching this description, I will never forgive myself. It's my duty to call. In my mind. Not SHOOT. Just call. Isn't that being a good neighbor? Part of the community?
So...here's the funny part. I call the NON-emergency line. They ask a few questions. They offer to send an officer over (which, personally, I never know how to answer. Do I want the police at my house? Not really.) as the local tattle tale, this seems like a silly choice to me but then, I don't want them to think I'm shirking my responsibility either. Plus, unless I am going to work, I always look like hell. If someone comes over, that means I have to put on a bra. Yeah, it's true. I'm that sexy.
I digress.
One of the questions the dispatch asks me is, "What did the bicycle guy look like?" to which I replied, "He honestly looked a lot like Yasser Arafat" because the guy did look like Yasser Arafat. His looks were not what made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. His behavior did.
 |
| In my experience men of a certain age just don't travel on girls' 10 speed bicycles.... |
Men don't just stop in their tracks, not typically, not on their 10-speed girls bikes with new cardboard on the spokes, change directions to ride uphill just hear the sound of my breath rasping out of my throat in agonizing wheezes from my 30 years as an obese smoker. They just don't. So for me, looking like Yasser Arafat doesn't raise red flags. Acting like I resemble Beyonce wearing a dress made of butter at an all you can eat buffet? Sorry dude. Red flag.
Here's the funny part. When the local police showed up at my door, two seconds after I called, they can barely look at me. The officer, who is rolling his head like a puppet because eye rolling isn't enough says, "Ma'am, this poor man is just on his way to work. He is NOT a terrorist."
(Who said he was a terrorist? Did I call the FASHION POLICE? NO. I did not. Plus, I only wish I had that number. )
The officer looked and sounded so annoyed. I didn't bother to correct him and I waited until he was safely behind the darkly tinted glass of his squad car to laugh and laugh. To be honest, I was impressed they even knew who Yasser Arafat was in this town. It didn't matter that I never, ever called in a "terrorist" sighting.
I never saw bicycle boy again. Maybe his spokes caught on fire chasing after another woman, one more receptive to a man seated on hot pink pleather.
Tonight when I called in my latest NON-emergency "FYI" the officer who arrived at my door was dressed in a skin tight uniform that made me think of Mary Lou Retton at the 1984 Olympics and when I went to shake his hand, he recoiled in distaste.
Now to be fair to myself I was fully dressed this time with make-up and had brushed my teeth so his rebuff seemed a little...hurtful? Confusing? Not neighborly, to be sure.
He said, and I'm quoting, "We don't shake hands ma'am. It's too personal. We can knuckle bump, though." and there I was, knuckle bumping in my driveway with Mary Lou and her partner, Officer I-don't-like-you-either.
It didn't matter. All I could see was this.
To be fair, the local police have some really good officers on the job here. Those stories aren't as funny. After living here for a decade, I think it might be time for me to look into something more official like starting a neighborhood watch program instead of taking on the job of the old grumpy woman who calls the police over nothing all the time. That's not good and it's not what I want.
I care about my community and I care about those, like police officers, who work so hard and risk so much to keep it safe. That said, I think I need to have a better understanding about why the officers in my neighborhood are afraid to shake hands with the natives. That can't be a good sign.
In the meantime, all I can do is pray that all those years of hand shaking aren't the cause of my seemingly permanent residence in Single Town.
Too intimate. Who knew?
Your ever lovin',
Miss Pierce