Drugs Schmugs

I was flipping through blogs this morning and found to my much delight that my friend Kay had composed a post while she was on drugs. 

Not illegal drugs, silly.  Just the turns-illegal-if-you-harbor-a-meth-lab-in-your-home kind of drugs.  You know..the ones you have to sign away the lives of not only your children and your spouse, but also the life of your great aunt who lives in Buloxi, to purchase. 

Blogs on drugs make me snort giggle, really.  My good buddy Carpoolqueen recently delved into the mystical world of codeine composition. 

And people say bloggers are boring. 

Anyway....all the drug chit chat made me remember a funny encounter I had with the law once upon a time. 

The law, you say?  Oh yes.  The Fuzz.  The Pig.  The Po Po.  The Five-Oh.  The Heat.  The Bacon.  The Feds.

Now...I've had slightly more encounters with our friendly law enforcement officers than I care to discuss here, but my favorite story with the coppers involved me and a friendly bottle of Nyquil.

It was the mid-90s, and I was on a highway in Texas known to be a high drug trafficking route.  On my way back to college from my sister's home in the Great Big State, I was cruisin' along in my very unfancy Oldsmobile with my boombox sitting in the passenger seat.  I wasn't cool enough yet for the fancy DiscMan with the tape deck converter, so I resorted to packing my boom box with D batteries and spinning my Celine Dion and Green Day cds anytime I went on a trip.

I had contracted a horrid head cold whilst at my sis's and without my mama there to help me through my self-medicating, I erred on the side of bad judgement and downed a double dose of Nyquil before heading out on a 4 hour trip on an already sleepy Sunday afternoon.

It wasn't long before I got tired.

And not just like tired tired.  But like I'm going to keel over head first into the floor board tired.  And I'll take Celine Dion and her "If You Asked Me To" self down with me.

Somewhere between half-consciousness and just plain dead, I saw the blue lights.  And there might have been a siren.  But I would have had to have been fully coherent to notice that.

I pulled over because I thought I remembered that being what you were supposed to do if you saw the flashing blues of The Po-Lease.

He swaggered to my car, hand on his weapon, ready in case the ponytailed girl with the Baptist University sticker in the back window of the Olds tried to make a violent move.

"Ma'am?  I noticed you were doing a lot of swerving back there.  You feeling okay?"

"Oh, Officer, I'm fine.  I'm just on drugs."

Um.....probably not the wisest thing to say while speaking to a burly cop on the side of the Cocaine Corridor.

What proceeded was an interesting sequence of events which involved me with my hands splayed on the Olds, pleading my case of Nyqul consumption, and a thorough search of my car.

Which, I must add, turned up nothing but the bottle of green stuff, a pile of used kleenexes, and a suitcase full of dirty clothes.

So he let me go.

With strict instructions to "be careful, feel better, and do not tell police officers that you are on drugs."

Dually Noted.


---- Can't wait to see what kind of Google hits this post gets!!